Two days later, as Mason was still preoccupied with funds and the mystery left behind by Lily, a call from a Beverly Hills number once again shattered his quietude. It was Sophia Rockefeller.
"Mason? It's Sophia!" Her voice came through the receiver, bright and full of life like California sunshine, with just the right amount of sweetness and familiarity. "Hope I'm not disturbing you!"
"Miss Sophia, hello," Mason replied, his mind already guessing at her purpose.
"Just Sophia is fine!" She chuckled lightly. "So, here's the thing. This Saturday at 7 PM, my grandfather—the family calls him 'Old Mr. Rockefeller'—is celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday. We have a little family dinner every year. It's just family and a few very close old friends, along with many friends from our partner companies. We have dinner, and it sort of serves as a warm-up for the new year's projects for the family's charitable foundation." Her tone was casual and natural, as if describing a regular family meal. "My grandfather and father heard about the jewelry store incident and have been saying they'd like to thank the brave young man in person. So... I was wondering if you would be willing to join us for this little dinner on Saturday night? Right at the house in Beverly Hills, very informal. Grandfather specifically asked the chef to prepare his favorite dessert. I think you'll really like it."
Her invitation was worded with great skill. She framed the scale as a "family dinner" and a "little get-together," emphasizing "family" and "close old friends," using "thanks" and "the old man's wishes" as the reason, and ending with a light, charming detail like "dessert." This greatly diluted the potential sense of pressure and distance that an invitation to "the Rockefeller family patriarch's birthday banquet" might bring. She didn't even use a formal word like "invite"; instead, she asked if he "would be willing to come," which felt respectful and intimate.
Mason was silent for a few seconds. Reason screamed, warning him to stay far away from this glamorous world so alien to him, a place full of unknown rules and potential scrutiny. But another voice—the intense craving for resources, opportunities, and crossing the class barrier before him—overwhelmed his unease.
What better cover story than "accidentally helped a Rockefeller family member and earned their appreciation"? Even though it meant stepping onto a brand-new, potentially hostile battlefield.
In the end, ambition and calculation won. "It would be a tremendous honor to receive an invitation from Old Mr. Rockefeller," he said, letting his voice sound sincere and slightly overwhelmed. "Thank you so much, Sophia. Saturday at 7 PM, I'll be there on time."
For the next few days, Mason nearly wore out his legs. He needed a real tuxedo. He traipsed around Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive, finally renting a well-fitted classic single-breasted shawl-collar tuxedo, a white wing-collar formal shirt, a black bow tie, and a pair of patent leather dress shoes from a historic menswear shop. The rental cost alone made his wallet ache, but it was the minimum required to maintain basic decency. He practiced tying the bow tie repeatedly, ensuring he wouldn't make a fool of himself, at least in appearance.
Saturday evening, Mason took a cab to Beverly Hills, got out, and walked straight into the depths. The address from Sophia's text was located in a vast, private hilly area; the navigation had already failed as he approached the vicinity, forcing him to rely on landmarks.
Passing through an imposing, massive iron gate adorned with Rococo-style reliefs (the Rockefeller family crest engraved on the gateposts), the sight that unfolded before him took Mason's breath away. This was no simple mansion; it was a private estate spanning over two hundred acres. The driveway was as wide as a city street, flanked by undulating, masterfully landscaped golf-course-level lawns. In the distance, floodlights illuminated a standard racetrack and a helicopter pad. Amidst the woods, glimpses of glass greenhouses, colonnades, and Versailles-style fountains could be seen. The air was filled with the scent of grass and an indescribable, serene order belonging to supreme wealth.
The main residence was a magnificent, massive structure blending Neoclassical and modern styles, built entirely of pale golden limestone, resembling a glowing shrine under countless landscape lights. Towering Corinthian columns supported the portico, where attendants in full white uniforms and white gloves stood like statues.
The foyer was three stories high. A vast dome painted with religious-themed murals (possibly originals) arched overhead, while beneath his feet was rare marble mosaic flooring from Turkey. A huge indoor fountain with running water stood at the center, surrounded by rare orchids airlifted from the Netherlands. The air was a complex blend of high-end perfume, cigar smoke, precious wood, and food. Exquisitely dressed guests conversed in low tones; the gleam of jewels and crystal chandeliers intertwined. Just the number of visible servants, attendants, and musicians was no less than a hundred, moving silently, impeccably trained, ensuring every detail of the banquet was flawless.
Mason's rented tuxedo, in this setting, felt like borrowed costume. The fabric's sheen, the subtle curve of the cut, even the crispness of the shirt, couldn't compare to the bespoke suits around him, likely crafted by Savile Row masters, perhaps even lined with bulletproof fabric. A few gentlemen and ladies conversing in the foyer glanced at him, their eyes lingering briefly, filled with assessment, curiosity, and a hint of almost undisguised amusement at seeing an interloper.
"Mason! You made it! Perfect timing!" Sophia appeared before him like a ray of sunshine breaking through clouds. She was breathtakingly beautiful tonight. A champagne-colored, crystal-embellished, custom-made mermaid gown from a Lebanese haute couture house hugged her slender figure flawlessly. Her pale blonde hair was elegantly styled in a French twist, and around her neck rested a dazzling diamond necklace (clearly a family heirloom). Her face radiated pure joy as she naturally linked her arm with Mason's, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding glances.
"Sophia, tonight... it's breathtaking," Mason said sincerely, his eyes sweeping over the museum-like hall.
"I'm glad you like it! Come on, let me take you to meet my grandfather and father first, then introduce you to a few 'interesting' friends." Sophia pulled him, weaving through the crowd towards the depths of the ballroom.
The ballroom was even more opulent, large enough to host hundreds for dinner simultaneously. A long dining table was laid with Irish linen tablecloths, set with complete suites of silverware bearing the family crest and French Baccarat crystal glasses. The walls displayed original works by Renoir and Monet (protected by discreet bulletproof glass). A small orchestra played soft classical music in a corner.
Sophia brought Mason to an elderly man seated in a high-backed chair at the head of the table. Old Mr. Rockefeller, though in his eighties, sat ramrod straight. His eyes were sharp as a hawk's, his face stern, radiating the intangible pressure of long-held authority. He merely gave Mason a slight nod, his voice low and clear. "Sophia mentioned you. Enjoy yourself, young man." But that scrutinizing gaze made Mason feel X-rayed.
Sophia's father, William Rockefeller, a coldly elegant and capable man in his fifties, shook Mason's hand briefly, his tone polite yet distant. "Thank you for your help with my daughter, Mr. Cooper. Please, make yourself at home." His attention was clearly more on the political and business luminaries coming to offer birthday wishes.
After meeting the family core, Sophia led Mason to a relatively younger circle. Here, gathered five or six gentlemen aged between twenty and thirty-five, all impeccably dressed and distinguished, but with expressions ranging from the innate arrogance of the wealthy to calculation. They orbited like satellites around several young ladies, with Sophia undoubtedly at the center. Seeing Sophia intimately arm-in-arm with Mason—a complete stranger in a rented tuxedo—their eyes instantly turned complex, a mix of scrutiny, wariness, and unconcealed hostility.
Each surname behind these individuals represented a vast American business empire and unimaginable wealth. Vanderbilt, Morgan, Carnegie, Hearst... They were heirs to top-tier financial dynasties, either on par with the Rockefellers or slightly less formidable. Their attentiveness to Sophia stemmed from both awe and desire to attach themselves to the Rockefeller power, intertwined with longing for Sophia's own beauty and heiress status.
"Mr. Cooper?" Derek Vanderbilt spoke first, swirling an amber liquid in his crystal glass, a sarcastic curl to his lips. "A... most impressive name. May I ask what field the Cooper family is involved in? Emerging tech, or perhaps... local *specialty services*?" He emphasized "specialty services" heavily, eliciting a few low chuckles.
Spencer Morgan adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone mild yet each word cutting. "Soph, your 'hero' looks a bit tense. Is the tux not fitting well, or is the scale of this affair a bit overwhelming? Should I have someone fetch you a Coke to settle your nerves? Champagne might be a bit too stimulating." He implied Mason was a country bumpkin out of his depth.
Archibald Carnegie was more direct. He looked Mason up and down and sneered. "Dude, that getup... is that a 'Men's Wearhouse' rental? I can see the wear mark on the cuff from three meters away. Didn't Sophia tell you this was Black Tie, not a community charity bake sale?" His remark drew a louder wave of laughter.
Lawrence Hearst chuckled darkly, lighting a slim cigar and blowing out a smoke ring. "Hero? More like dumb luck. Sophia, you should be careful. Lots of folks clawing up from the bottom are good at using little tricks to gain the trust of naive girls like you, then angle for benefits. Seen it a thousand times." His insinuation was clear, his gaze snakelike as it slid over Mason.
The taunts came down like hailstones, merciless. They were jealous of Sophia's favor towards Mason and despised his obviously non-aristocratic appearance and background. Their attacks were a blend of arrogant class superiority, hostility towards a potential rival, and pure, malicious pleasure in putting someone down.
Mason's face remained calm, but inside, cold anger churned. He knew that in this setting, any defense based on taste or knowledge would be futile, seen only as clumsy imitation and showing off. He needed a method they couldn't understand, something wealth and birthright couldn't shield them from, to retaliate.
He needed an "accident" to acquire a superpower. His eyes swept the room quickly. The ladies present were dressed exquisitely, but stockings weren't universally worn. Even if they were, they were likely top-brand, nearly invisible styles. More crucially, this was a heavily secured private estate with guests of immense wealth and status. He couldn't possibly find a woman for a "trade" to manufacture a controlled "accident" as easily as in ordinary settings. He had to wait passively for an opportunity, which made him somewhat anxious.
The opportunity came in an unexpected way. An older lady in a pale gold mermaid gown (later learned to be one of Sophia's grand-aunts) was gracefully holding a champagne flute while conversing with guests. Behind her, a little boy of about five or six, dressed in a miniature suit (clearly the child of some guest), was excitedly chasing a fluffy Pomeranian that had somehow gotten in. The dog darted right by the lady's feet, and the boy rushed after it, about to collide!
Mason was closest. He stepped forward swiftly, reaching out to steady the potentially jostled lady while his other arm tried to block the reckless boy. The scene turned chaotic momentarily. The lady gasped, sidestepping. Mason's hand landed on her arm to steady her, while his other elbow was jostled by the incoming boy, swinging outward involuntarily.
*Rrrrip—*
A faint, but distinctly audible (to those nearby) tearing sound.
Mason felt his suit cuff catch on something incredibly thin and smooth. He looked down. On the lady's calf, just below the hem of her gown, where she wore flesh-toned ultra-sheer stockings, there was now a long, irregular run! The fibers were slightly curled, revealing a small patch of pale skin beneath. Clearly, during the commotion, a custom button on his cuff (slightly angular) or something else sharp had accidentally snagged and torn the undoubtedly expensive stockings.
"Oh! Good heavens!" The lady, having steadied herself, looked down at the run and flushed with embarrassment.
"My deepest apologies, ma'am! So terribly sorry! My clumsiness!" Mason immediately released her arm, stepping back half a pace, his face a mask of genuine chagrin and apology. He even gave a slight bow. "This is dreadful, I—"
"No, no, dear, not your fault," the lady recovered her composure quickly, patting her chest and glancing at the still-chasing boy. "This little rascal was too rough. You were trying to help." She tugged her hem, trying to conceal the run somewhat, but its position was quite noticeable.
Just then, Sophia arrived, assessed the situation, quickly soothed her grand-aunt, and gestured for a nearby maid to assist. While everyone's attention was on the lady and the boy, Mason swiftly lowered his right hand and snapped his fingers discreetly at his side.
*Snap.*
**[Ability Acquired: Intestinal Microbiome Disturbance (Beginner)]**
**[Status: Usable Charges 3/3]**
**[Duration: 24 hours (Timer Started)]**
**[Effect: After snapping fingers, can designate up to three targets within line of sight (requires knowing their name or having clear identification). Slightly disturbs the activity and metabolism of specific sensitive bacterial groups in their intestines, causing varying degrees of increased gas, gurgling, and urgent bowel movements within the next 5-15 minutes. Effect lasts 10-30 minutes. Side effect severity correlates positively with target's recent diet, health, and stress levels. Cooldown: 20 minutes.]**
**Intestinal Microbiome Disturbance?**
Mason quickly grasped this seemingly crude yet divinely punitive ability. It wasn't a direct attack but chaos from within. For these sanctimonious gentlemen, perpetually concerned with decorum and image, what could be more effective at shattering their arrogant masks and causing social death than publicly losing control of their bowels, or worse?
As Derek Vanderbilt, Spencer Morgan, and Archibald Carnegie took turns mocking Mason with sharp remarks, Lawrence Hearst adding his sinister commentary, and Carlton Rockefeller observing coldly, Mason's hand, hanging at his side, made an almost imperceptible snap.
*Snap.*
**[Ability Acquired: Intestinal Microbiome Disturbance (Beginner)]**
**[Status: Usable Charges 3/3 → 2/3] (Adjusted: Can designate up to 5 per use. This time, Mason designated Derek, Spencer, and Archibald.)**
**[Effect Activated: Targets: Three. Slight disturbance of intestinal sensitive bacteria activity.]**
For the first few minutes, nothing seemed amiss. Derek was swaying his glass, continuing his monologue on "emerging tech versus old money taste." Suddenly, his trailing syllable lengthened slightly; his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, as if concentrating against an unfamiliar stirring in his gut. "...true aristocracy appreciates things that... *ahem*... stand the test of time," he finished lamely, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed discomfort. A vague, unsettling bloating sensation swirled deep in his abdomen.
Next was Spencer Morgan. He was polishing his gold-rimmed glasses with a handkerchief, attempting a more "civilized" critique of Mason's attire. The polishing slowed. He felt a faint, cold, sinking heaviness deep in his belly, as if his intestines were being gently tugged, followed by a few very soft *gurgles* only he could hear. When he replaced his glasses, his gaze flickered behind the lenses. His previously smooth analysis hit a snag. "Mr. Cooper's... *hmm*... rented attire, while inappropriate, could be considered a... *uh*... pragmatic choice." His foot shifted subtly, changing from a casually crossed stance to a more stable parallel one, his gluteal muscles unconsciously tightening.
Archibald Carnegie, who had been brazenly eyeing a waitress, suddenly heard a distinct *gurgle-gurgle* rumble from his gut, like a restless balloon tumbling. He instinctively sucked in his stomach, his playful grin freezing. "Seriously, man," he tried to redirect focus to Mason, but his voice lacked its earlier volume, even carrying a hint of tension, "don't you feel... *uh*... completely out of place here? Like a... *hmm*... groundhog that wandered into a swan pond?" After speaking, not only did the analogy feel weak, but a sharp, urgent need to relieve himself seized him, bringing a thin sweat to his back.
Almost simultaneously, the three experienced varying degrees of abdominal distress: from mild cramps and gas buildup to Archibald's distinct urge. They exchanged a subtle, bewildered glance—bad food? Too much cold champagne?
Derek was the first to buckle. The bloating grew more pronounced, as if seeking an exit. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain poise, but his voice was tight. "Excuse me, this champagne... bubbles are a bit strong. I need to... attend to something." He set down his glass as naturally as possible, walking towards the nearest restroom with a slightly stiff gait.
Seeing this, Spencer also felt the urgency; the sinking sensation intensified. "I'm feeling a bit stuffy too, need some air." He adjusted his glasses, walking faster than Derek, trying to get ahead.
Archibald could barely hold on, the pressure reaching a critical point. "Wait for me!" he hissed urgently, following, his steps slightly unsteady.
The three formed an awkward, hurried line, rushing to leave the corner and head towards a nearby side corridor. Several nearby young ladies and guests noticed their odd behavior, curious and inquisitive eyes following them.
Just as they were about to turn into the relatively quiet hallway, escaping most guests' view, Archibald, rushing to keep up, stumbled slightly and tensed his abdomen—
*Pffft~!*
A not-too-loud but distinctly audible, tremulous emission erupted from behind him, right at the corridor entrance.
Archibald froze completely, his face burning crimson to the tips of his ears. Spencer and Derek ahead of him halted abruptly, turning back to stare with disbelief, their faces a mix of shock, disdain, and their own impending-doom embarrassment.
"Arch!" Spencer hissed angrily and incredulously. "You...!"
"It wasn't me... it's these damn pants! Too tight!" Archibald blustered weakly, his face red. Worse, with this accidental "pressure release," he felt his sphincter relax slightly; a more urgent wave was coming. He clenched his legs desperately, his face turning green.
Derek, closest, caught a whiff of something ominous and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Forget maintaining decorum. He muttered in disgust, "God! Move! Not here!" He himself felt the bloating stirring rebelliously and could no longer care about grace, almost breaking into a half-jog.
Spencer panicked too, losing his coolly analytical expression, lips pressed thin, joining the brisk walk.
Thus, the three presented a farcical, pathetic sight: slightly hunched, legs clenched together, steps erratic and hurried, subconsciously putting distance between themselves as if each was contagious, disappearing hastily down the corridor. They left behind a faint, awkward scent and the suppressed, peculiar expressions of a few onlookers.
"What... what happened to them?" a lady asked behind her fan, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Master Vanderbilt and Mr. Morgan... goodness," a male guest murmured, his tone meaningful.
Sophia also witnessed their hasty retreat and the little "incident." Her sapphire-blue eyes widened comically; she covered her mouth, shoulders shaking violently as she tried to stifle laughter. She turned to Mason, who stood beside her looking calm, even slightly puzzled, and whispered, barely containing her mirth, "Mason... did you see that? Archibald, he... *pfft*! Did they all eat something bad?"
Mason raised an eyebrow slightly, adopting an equally puzzled expression. "They certainly didn't look well. Perhaps their stomachs aren't used to some of the... *refined* delicacies?" he mused internally. *This is just the first warning.*
About ten minutes later, the trio returned. They had washed their faces, tidied up, perhaps even changed their undergarments, trying to regain composure. But their faces were still pale, eyes holding lingering shock and deep humiliation. Yet, seeing Mason still standing beside Sophia, seemingly at ease (outwardly at least), the anger and resentment stoked by physical distress and public disgrace (albeit in a relatively secluded spot) flared up again. They became convinced this "jinx" Mason had brought them bad luck!
Derek struck first, his voice sharper than before, laced with a blustering ferocity. "Look, our 'commoner hero' is still here. Sophia, as a friend, I must warn you. Some people come from environments we can't imagine, carrying... microbial flora that might be quite different from ours." He substituted "bacteria" with the more "scientific" yet snide "microbial flora," implying Mason was an unclean pathogen.
Spencer adjusted his glasses, his gaze icy behind the lenses. No more beating around the bush. "Mr. Cooper's very presence seems to constitute an 'environmental disturbance.' Our recent discomfort might be a manifestation of... a *rejection reaction*." He absurdly blamed his own disgrace on Mason's "aura" being wrong.
Archibald glared at Mason hatefully, still clutching his unsettled stomach, teeth gritted. "Listen here, kid. Some people just don't belong in certain places. Forcing your way in makes everyone uncomfortable! Can't you feel the air is different around you?!" He attributed his own physical reaction to Mason ruining the "air."
Lawrence Hearst chuckled darkly on the sidelines, adding fuel. "Gentlemen, it seems Mr. Cooper here possesses not only unique taste but also a unique... *influence*." Carlton frowned, displeased by the trio's return and their intensified, baseless attacks on Mason. Their reasoning was preposterous.
Sophia's expression darkened. She was about to refute these groundless accusations.
Just then, a faint, almost polite smile touched Mason's lips. His right hand, at his side, brushed lightly again.
*Snap.*
**[Status: Usable Charges 2/3 → 1/3] (Second use, same three targets.)**
**[Effect Amplified: Previously disturbed bacterial activity intensifies. Gas production increases significantly; intestinal motility accelerates.]**
The effect was almost immediate.
Derek, about to continue his "microbiology" lecture, suddenly paled, his body stiffening. A soft but clear *pffft~*, with a slight tremble, escaped from his expensive tailored trousers. He clearly heard it himself, flushing instantly, instinctively clenching.
But it was only the beginning. Like dominoes falling.
Spencer's abdomen emitted a long, loud *gurgle-gurgle-gurgle*, as if a small engine were idling inside. He tried to cover it with a cough, but it only drove the gas downward, resulting in a deflating-balloon-like *hssss*— a muffled sound. His eyes widened in horror behind his glasses.
Archibald had it worst. He was already fighting the urge; this time, the gas came with a vengeance. *Brrr... pfft! Pffft-hiss!* A series of uncontrollable, variously-pitched emissions erupted from him like a string of bad firecrackers. Not deafeningly loud, but perfectly audible within their little circle.
An indescribable odor, a complex mix of digestive juices, decomposing protein, and high-end perfume failing to mask it, began to waft through the air.
"Oh, my word!" a lady standing nearby exclaimed, immediately fanning herself vigorously with a lace fan and stepping back several paces.
"What is that smell?" "Seems to be coming from Mr. Vanderbilt and the others..." Murmurs grew louder around them; curious, disgusted, and amused glances converged on them.
Derek, Spencer, and Archibald stood frozen, faces ashen, wishing the floor would swallow them. They tried to speak, but any words were futile against such tangible "olfactory evidence." Lawrence Hearst also instinctively covered his nose, stepping away. Carlton's brow furrowed into a deep scowl, his scrutiny turning to clear disdain.
Sophia was first stunned, then her sapphire eyes flashed with incredulous intensity. She bit her lip hard to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders trembling slightly. She looked at Mason, curiosity and excitement blazing in her gaze—once could be coincidence, but twice? And timed so *perfectly*!
The three were now completely panicked and furious. Extreme humiliation and increasingly unbearable physical distress stripped them of their last shreds of reason and decorum. They directed all their rage and embarrassment at Mason, convinced this "plague-bearer" was the source of their misfortune!
Derek pointed a trembling finger at Mason, his voice twisted by anger, shame, and the churning agony inside. "It's you! It must be you! You... you cursed creature! What filthy trick did you use?! Was it the glass you touched? Or the very air you breathe?!" He was babbling, launching absurd accusations.
Spencer was pale as a ghost, cold sweat soaking his temples, his expensive shirt clinging to his back. He trembled slightly, yet tried to attack with his remaining "logic." "This isn't right... too much of a coincidence! Every time we're near you... Cooper, you'd better explain! Did you... bring something unclean in here?!" His accusation was equally baseless but filled with near-hysterical panic.
Archibald could barely form a complete sentence. Hunched over, hands pressed hard against his stomach, he glared at Mason with bloodshot eyes, a hoarse, hate-filled growl escaping his throat. "Get... get away! Stay away from us! You... you jinx! Urgh—!" His words were cut off by a violent intestinal spasm, forcing a pained groan.
Their words were venomous and chaotic, blaming Mason's very "existence," filled with superstitious fear and hysterical accusation. The surrounding guests murmured in astonishment; such nearly deranged accusations seemed especially absurd and ugly at a Rockefeller affair.
"Enough!" Sophia finally couldn't take it. She stepped forward, placing herself slightly in front of Mason, her face flushed with anger, her voice clear and forceful, brooking no argument. "Derek! Spencer! Archibald! Look at yourselves! Acting like madmen, hurling wild accusations! Mason is *my* guest, Grandfather's guest! If you're unwell, see a doctor, don't stand here barking like wild dogs! Disgracing your families!"
Her defense and sharp rebuke were like adding fuel to the fire. The trio, already on the brink, were now utterly enraged (yet didn't dare lash out at Sophia directly), directing all their venom at Mason.
At this tense moment, with all eyes upon them, Mason gently pulled Sophia's arm, subtly shielding her behind him. He faced the three furious, disgraced, and desperate "gentlemen," his expression showing no anger, only a near-pitying calm. Then he raised his right hand, this time a bit more noticeably, as if simply adjusting his cuff, but his fingers made one last, soft sound—
*Snap.*
**[Status: Usable Charges 1/3 → 0/3] (Final use. Targets: Derek, Spencer, Archibald.)**
**[Effect Unleashed: Intestinal flora severely disrupted. Intense intestinal spasms. Significant loss of sphincter control.]**
Time seemed to freeze for a second.
Then, Archibald let out a short, inhuman wail: "No—!!!" His body jackknifed violently, his face cycling from red to purple to white. A loud, wet, splattering sound erupted from his lower body! *Sploosh—gurgle-splat!!!* His light-colored, expensive suit trousers were instantly soaked and stained a dark, yellowish, viscous mess at the seat and down the legs. The terrible wet patch spread rapidly. An indescribable stench, ten times stronger than before, erupted like a shockwave! His legs buckled; he almost collapsed, held up only by his last shred of will. But foul liquid was already streaming down his legs, dripping onto the mirror-smooth marble floor.
It was a catastrophic signal.
"Urghhhh—!" Derek followed immediately. He tried to clench, but violent spasms made control impossible. *Pfft! Pfft-pfft! Splash—!* A series of wet sounds and liquid rushing. The back of his trousers rapidly darkened and sagged with filth. He stood frozen, eyes vacant, as if his soul had departed.
Spencer was relatively "quieter." He only emitted a severely suppressed groan, his body going limp as if boneless, crumpling to the floor, curling up. A large, spreading puddle of yellowish-brown liquid formed beneath him. His glasses were askew; his face was a mask of despair and physiological tears.
The stench was overwhelming! A blend of food waste, bile, digestive juices, and utter despair—a smell to remember for life. The surrounding guests first stood in collective stupefaction, then erupted into horrified screams, violent retching, and uncontrollable vomiting! People scrambled back as if from the plague, knocking over chairs, toppling glasses. The sound of shattering crystal, gasps, and vomiting created a cacophony. The once-elegant corner of the ballroom had turned into a hellish, filthy scene in seconds!
Several ladies fainted on the spot. Men turned green, covering their noses as they fled.
Sophia covered her mouth in horror, but a sharp intake of breath escaped through her fingers. She looked at Mason, her expression incredibly complex—shock, disbelief, a sliver of fear, but deep within, a trembling, almost exhilarating sense of witnessing "divine retribution"?
Carlton Rockefeller's face was thunderous. Lawrence Hearst had collapsed into a nearby chair, trembling like a leaf.
Old Mr. Rockefeller's enraged voice boomed through a microphone, cutting through the chaos. "Security! Now! Remove these three individuals immediately! Call for doctors! Quarantine this area! Highest-level disinfection, now!" His voice shook with fury. "Outrageous! Utterly disgraceful!"
Well-trained bodyguards, fighting nausea, swiftly wrapped the three completely broken, filthy, reeking "gentlemen" in thick blankets and hauled them out of the ballroom like unrecyclable trash. Cleaning crews followed immediately, desperately sanitizing the area with disinfectant, deodorizers, and screens.
But the smell and that hellish image were already seared into the memory of every guest present. The names Derek Vanderbilt, Spencer Morgan, and Archibald Carnegie, along with tonight's "feat," would spread through top social circles at lightning speed, becoming a permanent joke and stain.
The corner was eventually cleaned and cordoned off, but the crowd gave it a wide berth, hearts still pounding. Mason remained standing, seemingly the only calm point at the storm's center. He gently patted Sophia's still-stunned hand and said softly, "It seems they truly need to reevaluate their... *lifestyle habits*."
Sophia snapped back to reality. Looking into his calm, unreadable eyes, then at the now-cleaned but still-tainted corner, a chill ran down her spine. But it was followed by an even more overwhelming curiosity and a near-dangerous fascination. This man... who was he? Or rather, *what* was he?
The mark on his wrist grew warm, then slowly cooled. **[Intestinal Microbiome Disturbance (Beginner)]** — three charges, all used. And Mason knew that after tonight, he had dropped a depth charge into this glamorous, dangerous world. The ripples had only just begun.