The monster's physical body had been destroyed, but its spiritual storm exploded in retaliation—becoming even more intense than before.
Those who had escaped their previous fits of laughter, or had fallen unconscious or injured, were once again swept up by the transparent maelstrom.
Moments later, twisted grins returned to their faces.
And so, the masses resumed their wild brawling and chaotic violence.
The brief moment of peace was nothing more than an intermission. Now, the referee had blown the whistle again, and round two began in earnest.
Cid dragged a man off a young woman, flinging him aside. Then, without hesitation, he shot the man in the leg.
All the while, he kept communicating with headquarters via earpiece.
"Still not here yet? Did HQ send a damn oxcart?"
"Specialist is en route. Estimated arrival in five minutes..."
"Does HQ even realize the situation's changed?" Cid interrupted impatiently, kicking another lunatic's leg to break it.
"The physical body of the monster's gone—but its spirit exploded, creating a new kind of psychic storm."
"This thing hits even harder than the last one. Even I'm getting affected."
Cid had undergone extensive training at Division Nine. He knew exactly what it felt like to be touched by infection.
Now, he felt an oppressive air descending, like storm clouds collapsing from above—so heavy he could barely breathe.
The surrounding maniacs seemed to form walls of madness, closing in from all sides.
Worse still, there was that eerie, maniacal laughter echoing in his skull—like a looping audio track crawling into his bones.
Even he, a seasoned field agent, was being affected.
He couldn't imagine how devastating this would be for normal civilians.
From the earpiece came static—then a new voice broke through.
"Investigator Cid, this is Professor Miyazaki from Infection Research. Can you hear me?"
"Yeah, I hear you. Busy breaking legs over here."
As he spoke, Cid crushed two more kneecaps.
The infected couldn't feel pain, and their injuries couldn't stop their twisted grins.
But disabling them did limit their mobility, keeping them from turning the streets into a full-blown MMA tournament.
"A psychic storm triggered by an infected spiritual form—I've only ever hypothesized this in theory. This is the first time I've seen it in reality. Unbelievable... the power of these ancient beings is truly—"
"Professor, can we skip the monologue?" Cid cut him off coldly.
He didn't know why, but Miyazaki's calm voice in this chaos somehow got under his skin.
"Right, right. Straight to the point," Miyazaki agreed.
"The psychic storm can't maintain itself indefinitely without a source. For it to keep expanding like this, there must be a core infection source anchoring the storm."
"Take that out, and the storm will collapse on its own."
"Can I just shoot it from here?" Cid asked.
"No. A careless ranged attack might miss the kill and worsen the storm—causing irreversible damage."
Cid briefly paused his onslaught, glancing at the heart of the maelstrom.
"So I need to go in there and personally kill the source?"
"Correct. You must ensure its head hits the ground."
"But aren't there cases where even beheading doesn't kill them?"
"Those are rare. And even if it doesn't die, decapitation would still interrupt the storm's core channel, halting its spread. That alone achieves our goal."
Miyazaki hesitated, then added,
"But... it's extremely dangerous.
The storm's psychic infection is likely stronger than normal. Even a trained agent like you—once inside—I can't predict what might happen."
Cid was silent for a moment.
Then he chuckled.
"So what you're saying is, I might end up like one of them, huh?"
Around him, the infected raged in frenzy, the chaotic square now resembling some grotesque nightclub dance floor.
Cid, the only sane one, stood out—like a misplaced soul in the middle of madness.
"I need to warn you," Miyazaki said seriously.
"Even if you succeed, you could suffer irreversible consequences.
You might save everyone—but when backup arrives, they may have no choice but to—"
"Don't worry about it."
Cid lit another cigarette, popped it in his mouth, reloaded his weapon, and began walking calmly into the pitch-black storm.
"If it comes to that, I'll save one bullet for myself."
He paused, grinned wide.
"Professor, you gave me this method—that means you think it's what I should do, right?"
"I never said that. I only explained the risks and possible solutions. What you choose to do... is your own decision."
Just then, another voice cut through the comms—a crisp female voice.
"Hold your position. Wait for reinforcements. That's an order."
It was Aurelia.
She was younger than Cid, but ranked higher.
Cid smirked.
"An order? You know that stuff doesn't work on me."
He flicked his cigarette, footsteps steady as he approached the eye of the storm.
"If I were the kind of guy who followed orders and played by the rules...
I'd be your superior by now."
Aurelia hesitated.
"Brother Cid, don't go. Help is almost there. HQ is still evaluating countermeasures—"
"We don't have time," Cid cut her off.
"Professor Miyazaki is right—this is our best shot. And I'm the best candidate."
"I stopped aging a long time ago. I've served long enough in Division Nine.
The only reason I'm still alive is because I've been waiting for a fitting end."
"If this is it—then it's meaningful. I won't regret it.
And no one will mourn me."
He smiled again, took a final drag of smoke, and tossed the cigarette aside.
"Because the people who would've mourned me…
are already six feet under."
Before anyone could reply, he cut off communications.
He had already reached the edge of the storm.
His teammates' voices vanished in his earpiece.
The laughter returned—layer upon layer of maddening, distorted laughter.
Twisted figures appeared before him: men, women, elders, children—
all wearing grotesque, unnatural grins.
And this was just the outer layer.
Cid didn't know what awaited inside—but he didn't care.
This was a gamble.
He didn't need a reason.
Just a surge of adrenaline and a righteous impulse.
Even if it destroyed him—he didn't care.
Ending the catastrophe alone, then going out with a bullet to the head?
Sounded like a pretty badass, stylish way to die.
He smirked.
Totally worth it.
But Cid never expected—
He wouldn't get the chance to pull off his final act.
Something snagged his ankle.
Before he could react, a powerful force yanked him to the ground, dragging him away from the storm's center.
He skidded across the pavement and was suddenly hoisted upside down, hanging from a streetlight.
"What the—?!"
Cid, halfway through his big heroic moment, was completely caught off guard.
Now he was dangling like a sack of potatoes, body folded awkwardly, face twisted in disbelief.
He looked up—
Perched atop the streetlight was a dark figure with pointed ears and a fluttering black cape.
Batman.
He had fired his grappling hook and yoinked Cid out of danger, leaving the man hanging upside down.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Cid roared.
"There's no time! Someone has to stop the infection source. I—!"
Before he could finish—
Batman dropped down.
The Dark Knight didn't say a word.
He ignored Cid's shouting.
And marched straight into the storm.
Cid froze.
This guy…
Is he planning to save me… and take my place?
"Hey—HEY! WAIT!"
Cid thrashed and struggled in his grappling-hook trap.
"Come back, dammit!!"
No response.
The Dark Knight disappeared into the storm—
leaving behind only a billowing cape and an unshakable silhouette.