The moment Evan stepped onto the perimeter of "Sector Zero," he felt an unprecedented sense of rejection.
Under the "Grid Vision" gifted by White Owl, the scene before him was no longer the crumbling ruins of the physical world. Instead, it was a nightmare woven from shadow, light, and logic. The energy lines, once smooth and flowing, warped violently here, as if crushed by an invisible hand, eventually converging into a towering, semi-transparent wall of light.
This was the city's firewall—the absolute domain defined by "The Bench."
Rain struck the wall, disintegrating instantly into fine mist, producing a high-pitched hiss like a thousand cicadas.
"Detected 'Program' reset."
A voice, devoid of any emotional inflection, drifted from the shadows ahead. Evan stopped. Rain slid off the edge of his hoodie, dripping onto his right hand—a limb now covered in dark purple, rune-like hypertrophic growths. He could feel those runes pulsing in the freezing rain, as if they were a second heart beating within his frame.
Three figures emerged from the gloom.
They wore no heavy exoskeletons, no weapons shimmering with supernatural energy. They were dressed in simple black tactical gear, yet the steadiness of their breathing and the suffocating killing intent they radiated caused the skin on Evan's neck to prickle.
This was pure, tempered physical power.
"Target: Subject 01. Status: Severely damaged," the lead man said, raising a matte-black longblade that lacked even a hint of reflection. "Directive: Physical scrap."
Evan didn't respond. He simply, slowly, expanded his five-meter radius.
Hum—
The faint energy flowing through the air vanished instantly. It was as if a boisterous theater had suddenly been cut from all power. A normal Esper would have suffocated from the sudden vacuum of energy. Yet, these three didn't so much as blink.
"They aren't using abilities," Evan thought, his heart sinking as his left hand gripped the hilt of his short blade. "These are... physical assassins."
The swordsman moved first.
He didn't rely on any flashy speed-enhancing skills. Instead, he utilized raw, terrifying muscular power to kick off the mud, leaving a crater in the sludge. In the blink of an eye, he had breached Evan's five-meter radius.
CLANG.
The sharp ring of metal on metal was jarring in the silent, rainy night.
Evan raised his blade to block, but the massive impact was like a charging bull. It vibrated through the hilt into his palm, numbing his entire left arm. The opponent had clearly undergone specific training—every angle of his strike meticulously avoided the grasp of Evan's crystalline right hand.
The swordsman moved like a viper in the abyss, utilizing the reach of his blade to test and cut at the edges of Evan's Null Zone.
Then, the woman on the flank moved.
She whipped out a heavy metal chain. She wasn't aiming to bind Evan. Instead, she looped the chain precisely around a severed high-voltage cable nearby.
The moment the chain touched the cable, Evan felt a torrent of raw physical energy surging down the links.
Though any supernatural spark was erased within his radius, electricity—as a fundamental physical phenomenon—persisted, conducting wildly through the metal.
"Dead angle," the woman said flatly.
The chain, crackling with the high-voltage tension enough to incinerate a man, swept toward Evan like a thunderous whip. The air grew heavy with the sharp scent of ozone; every raindrop seemed to be ionized into a tiny electrode.
Evan was forced back, his boots dragging two deep furrows into the muddy ground.
The "dam" built by the Neutralizer began to groan under these high-intensity physical shocks. He could feel the black "sediment" lurking in his marrow agitating, sensing the external threat. They were like a pack of starved beasts, slamming against the cage formed by the violet runes.
Counter-attack now, or die.
Evan's breathing grew labored. Cold sweat rolled down his temples, mixing with the rain and stinging his eyes.
The needle-thrower finally chose this moment to strike. He had been lurking in the deepest shadows until the moment Evan was boxed in by the chain. Three needles, coated in lethal inhibitor toxins, flew toward Evan's carotid artery.
A checkmate.
A flash of ruthlessness crossed Evan's eyes.
He didn't expand. Instead, he did the opposite—he violently retracted the five-meter field.
Five meters. Three. One.
Finally, the invisible field clung tightly to his form, creating an absolute, dense "membrane" roughly ten centimeters thick.
When the swordsman's next heavy strike fell, Evan didn't dodge. He reached out with his dark purple right hand and caught the howling blade mid-air.
CRACK!
Against that layer of absolute void, the manganese steel blade shattered like a dry biscuit the moment it touched Evan's fingertips. Shards of metal reflected Evan's cold, unflinching face.
"What?" The swordsman's pupils contracted—his first display of human emotion all night.
"Your understanding of physics," Evan's voice was raspy, carrying a chill dredged from the depths of hell, "is too shallow."
He moved.
No longer hampered by the energy loss of a large radius, he became the only "Indestructible Quantity" in this chaotic physical world under the extreme suppression of ten centimeters.
He took a step, and the mud beneath his feet was instantly displaced. He moved like a dark phantom, flickering through the gaps between the chain and the needles.
He didn't use his blade. Instead, he swept his crystalline right hand across the swordsman's chest plate.
No blood sprayed.
There was only a clean, mirrored cut through the ceramic composite armor, and the light in the assassin's eyes extinguished instantly. The moment his heart touched the "Zero," the physical inertia of its beat was erased.
Evan stood behind the three of them, rain striking the chains that hissed with steam from the heat.
His right hand was shaking violently, fine grey powder seeping from the dark purple runes. It was a sign that the Neutralizer was being consumed from within by the "sediment."
He looked toward the wall of light leading to Sector Zero, his eyes filled with a hollow, deathly resolve.
"The Bench..."
He whispered to himself, his voice drowned by the thunderous roar of the rain.
"Is this your welcome ceremony?"