In a dim, sterile corridor lit by flickering overhead bulbs, men in pale surgical robes pushed a metal bed forward. The figure strapped to it writhed faintly under the restraints— leather belts fastened across chest, arms, and legs.
At the far end of the hallway, a man in a long coat leaned silently against the wall. As the bed disappeared through a pair of reinforced doors, he pulled out his phone, hesitated for a breath, then dialed.
A few rings.
Then the line clicked.
On the other side, Saint stood in a smoky, blood-slicked room, holding a man by the jaws. The victim whimpered, blood trickling down his neck, eyes wild with fear.
"What is it? This better be the kind of news that saves your skin."
Saint's voice was nothing like his usual cocky drawl — it was low, crackling with barely suppressed rage.
"Uuh…" the caller swallowed hard. "I-it's the kid, boss…"
Saint didn't wait.
"You stutter again and I'll rip your tongue out and wear it like a tie."
The man flinched, voice trembling. "S-sorry, boss. The kid's been taken. Verusa police. They're using him like a lab rat."
Silence.
Saint let that hang in the air like a noose.
"You're joking. How in the nine hells did he end up in their hands?"
The caller rushed to explain. "Josh says he just... showed up. Right in front of Arlen."
Saint didn't speak for a full minute. When he did, it was quiet and lethal.
"Get him back. I don't care if you burn the whole damn island doing it."
Elsewhere, atop a steel-framed skyscraper bathed in moonlight, another man answered his phone with irritation.
"This better not waste my time."
The voice on the other end came quick. "Sir, the kid was taken by Verusa police."
"What?" The man hissed. "Tell them you're with him. That you're sanctioned."
"We tried — but they don't care. He was found outside the base. Some think he's one of the monsters. Others recognize him — say he was sent to Korea to eliminate a Hunter squad… and came back to report to a superior."
The line crackled.
Dagan leaned back in his office chair, the room pristine — glass shelves, polished floors, a desk devoid of clutter. He tapped his fingers once, then spoke.
"Bring the kid in. Quietly. No records. We question him ourselves."
He hung up.
Elsewhere, Ren twisted midair, dodging a brutal kick from one of the men in black. Their speed was shocking.
Can Ren really handle these guys? one soldier thought, jaw tight with disbelief.
"Our bullets aren't doing squat!" another shouted — seconds before his skull was crushed from the aftershock of Ren blocking a blade with sheer force.
"Fall back!" Ren bellowed, voice sharp. "Now!"
Damon, status? he asked telepathically.
Damon roared as he cleaved a man in black clean in half — only for the body to stitch itself back together in seconds.
Bit busy, sir, Damon replied with a grim snarl.
Another attacker lunged. Damon caught the punch with his axe, but a second blow from below caught him on the jaw, knocking him off-balance.
"Alright, gloves off," he growled. He turned to his team. "You stay, you die. Leave. Now."
Around them, tanks lay in ruins. The air stank of burning oil and blood. Hunters and soldiers littered the ground like broken dolls. The survivors fled — only to be impaled moments later by long, bony fingers. The ghouls had caught up.
Those who thirsted... feasted.
Damon's eyes flared. Blue energy crackled around him like a living storm. Rage mode. The ground beneath him trembled.
The men in black rushed — Damon spun, his axe carving through them like weeds.
A man entered, pulling on gloves. His smile was cracked and twitching.
"They took my daughter," he whispered. "Ate her while I watched. Now… now it's my turn."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Charmed to meet you too."
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" the man shrieked, seizing a scalpel from a tray of grotesque tools.
He sliced Ethan's chin. Instantly, the wound hissed, glowing red — then vanished in a puff of steam.
The man's laughter was high-pitched, euphoric. "You are one of them! Yes! Yes, I knew it!"
He grabbed a syringe with trembling hands.
Ethan tested the restraints. No good. They held firm. His gaze flicked to the system.
[No Immediate Dungeons Available]
[Next Random Dungeon: 48:12:49]
Fantastic.
Forty-eight hours before the next magical escape route. Ethan exhaled through his nose.
"Well," he muttered. "Guess it's just me, the chains, and Mr. Giggles over here."
He always wanted to play Operation — now I'm the board.
In another room — colder, dimmer, tucked away like a forgotten chamber of some twisted research wing — a man who looked eerily similar to Ethan lay tied down on a leather-strapped surgical bed. His hair was the same shade, his features a soft echo of Ethan's, but rounder, slightly bloated, and lacking the sharp fire in the eyes. He breathed heavily through his nose, sweat rolling down his forehead. Panic lingered behind a forced calm. His wrists and ankles were fastened with reinforced leather straps.
The steel doors hissed open with a sharp clang. A group of scientists entered, faces half-hidden behind sterile white masks and surgical goggles. Their coats were marked with symbols of a classified division — precise, clean, almost militaristic in appearance.
One of them stepped forward and snapped his gloves into place. "Scalpel."
An assistant passed it without a word.
The lead scientist leaned in and made a small incision just below the restrained man's collarbone. They waited.
Nothing.
No glow. No steam. No reaction.
A second passed.
Ten.
Still nothing.
The assistant frowned. "Wound has not closed. No regenerative response."
Another muttered, "No temperature spike. No molecular shift. Blood remains ordinary."
"He's not reacting. Not like the other."
The lead scientist scowled, turning to the vitals monitor. "This one is biologically identical to Subject-E in 94.3% of markers. What's missing?"
"Perhaps it's dormant. We should try psychological triggers," one suggested.
"Perhaps it's dormant. We should try psychological triggers," one suggested.
"No," the leader said flatly. "We're not wasting another four hours waiting on him to cry."
He turned back to the assistants. "Perch him up. Tilt the table. We'll test nerve responses under adrenal stress."
They locked the table into an upright angle with mechanical clicks and hydraulic whirrs. The man whimpered but didn't resist. Electrodes were attached to his skull and chest.
"Beginning electric stimulus test. Voltage starting at 1.5."
A pause. No spike.
"Increasing to 3.2. Minimal muscle twitch."
"Up to 6."
"Still no reaction indicative of awakened gene mutation."
The lead scientist crossed his arms.
"Progress: unsuccessful. Subject remains inert. Conclude the session. Flag this one as a failed clone."
"Should we dispose—?"
"No. Bag him. We'll dissect later."
As they turned away, the man tied to the leather straps began to cry — not from pain, but from knowing he had been made to resemble someone else… someone worth more than he'd ever be.
But the doctors? They didn't care. To them, he was just another data point.
Another broken tool in a room full of failed experiments.