The scene in the sub-level laboratory of the AXILE compound was a stark contrast to the glittering gold of the auction hall. Here, the air was sterilized, cold, and heavy with the hum of high-frequency stabilizers.
Ian was no longer standing at a podium. He sat perched on a horizontal metal bar near a bank of monitors, his legs dangling casually, his face obscured by the deep shadows of the overhead industrial vents. Only the circular glint of his spectacles remained visible—two white discs reflecting the sterile blue light of the room.
The reinforced titanium case containing the Division Two serum sat on a central pedestal.
Mahito stepped into the light, his heavy traditional overcoat draped over his shoulders like a shroud. He looked at the serum, then tilted his head toward the shadow where Ian sat.
"A charming performance upstairs, Ian," Mahito said, his voice carrying a jagged edge of mockery. "The child in the box. A clever choice for the audience. But we both know the truth of that 'terminal collapse.' You didn't just pick a sick child. You used a superhuman with a latent regenerative Factor, didn't you? You didn't return him to life; you simply jump-started a heart that was already programmed to heal."
A low, dry chuckle vibrated from the shadows. Ian didn't deny it. "In business, one must ensure the demonstration is... statistically favored to succeed. The investors want a miracle, Mahito. I give them the optics of one."
"Optics do not win wars," Mahito countered. He stepped closer, his hand moving to the silk sash of his waist. He pulled back his inner tunic, revealing a jagged, blackened laceration across his abdomen. The edges of the skin were necrotic, weeping a faint, dark ichor that refused to clot. "The rumors of my 'clash' were not exaggerated. I was struck by a blade forged in a vacuum. It doesn't just cut; it deletes the body's ability to recognize itself. It has been deteriorating for weeks."
He looked up at the metal bar. "Let us skip the theater. I want to see if your purple water can fix a wound that even the usual priestess couldn't . I will be the test subject."
Ian shifted on the bar, his spectacles flashing. "The side effects on a non-stabilized system are... unpredictable, Mahito. The metabolic surge is violent."
"Permit it," Mahito commanded.
Ian laughed—a sharp, delighted sound. "As you wish. The seal is yours to break."
Mahito didn't wait. He reached into the open case, his fingers dipping directly into the shimmering translucent purple liquid. The serum felt like liquid fire. With his other hand, he drew a small, obsidian-edged tanto. Without a flinch, he drove the blade into the center of his existing wound, slicing it open once more to allow the stagnant, dark blood to flow.
His men—four silent almost like shadows—immediately stepped forward, forming a tight, protective phalanx around him, their hands resting on the hilts of their concealed weapons. Their eyes stayed fixed on Ian's silhouette.
Mahito took a handful of the serum and sprinkled it directly into the raw, open gash.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The wound didn't just heal; it erupted into activity. The flesh began to knit together with a sickening, wet sound, the purple liquid turning into silver threads that sewed the muscle fibers back together in seconds. The necrotic blackness was bleached away by the sheer chemical aggression of the serum.
But as the skin closed, Mahito's eyes suddenly rolled back, the pupils vanishing into his skull. His body went rigid, then slack.
He fell into a state of profound, absolute hypnosis.
For five minutes, the most dangerous man in the room was a hollow shell. His mind was pulled into a chemical void—a side effect of the brain attempting to process the massive cellular rewrite. He stood there, unmoving, his breathing so shallow it was non-existent.
Klaus and a team of AXILE sentries shifted in the corners, sensing the vulnerability. But Mahito's men didn't move an inch. They stood as stone statues, a wall of disciplined lethality warning Ian the consequences of raising a finger in their direction while he was in this state won't be easy.
Ian stayed on his metal bar, watching the monitors. "Fascinating," he whispered. "The neural dampening is even stronger than the trials suggested."
"Well it's of lowest potency, the one displayed" scarlet blurted out.
Exactly five minutes later, Mahito's eyes snapped open. He exhaled a long, cold breath that came out as a white mist. He looked down at his abdomen. The skin was smooth, unmarked, as if the wound had never existed.
He wiped the remaining purple residue on his sleeve and looked up at Ian. The mockery was gone, replaced by a cold, business-like respect.
"It works," Mahito said.
He gestured to his lead subordinate. The man produced a sleek, encrypted hard-drive—the keys to a series of untraceable offshore accounts and localized assets. He placed it on the pedestal.
"The payment is authorized," Mahito said. "One hundred million, as agreed. The rest will be transferred with appropriate compensation for today's trouble once the shipment reaches the docks."
Ian hopped down from the metal bar, finally stepping into the dim light. He picked up the drive, tapping it against his chin. "Pleasure doing business, Mahito. Try not to get stabbed again before the next auction. I'm not sure your mind could handle a second dose so soon."
Mahito didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the lab, his men trailing behind him in perfect formation. The night was cold, the snow was still falling, and he now possessed the power to defy death—even if it cost him five minutes of vulnerability.