Vic, fully enveloped by the flowing, pitch-black symbiotic substance, steadily caught the severed mechanical head that was still sparking and talking.
His other hand, which had morphed into a blade, reverted to normal. He weighed the "trophy" in his hand like a basketball.
"Tsk," Vic tilted his head, examining the circuits and components inside the neck, wearing his signature smile that mixed curiosity with madness.
"Honestly, buddy, over seventy percent of the people at Nevermore have ordered 'personalized self-defense crafts' from me. My client list... doesn't seem to include you?"
The synthesized voice from the mechanical head remained steady, even carrying a hint of mockery.
"What if I belong to the other thirty percent?"
Vic's grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting coldly.
"Aha! That's the problem! Students who bought my 'crafts'... I might mix up their names or faces. But as for who hasn't bought anything..."
His smile instantly became dangerous and oppressive.
"I keep a very clear ledger in my mind! Unfortunately, you—or rather, this skin suit you're wearing—aren't on that 'thirty percent innocent list' either. Lying isn't something good boys do."
"Then, how about a negotiation?"
The mechanical head attempted a final effort, its tone even simulating a human-like bargaining cadence.
"Don't stop the fool in the crypt. Let me complete my observation and recording mission in peace. In return, when I capture you later, I can be as gentle as possible. C-136, C-137."
CRUNCH!
Its answer was Vic's fingers abruptly crushing inward.
The immense strength of the symbiote compressed the metal instantly, squeezing the mechanical head into a ball of scrap iron. The last sparks flickered like dying fireflies before extinguishing completely.
"Looks like negotiations broke down. Whatever, the resurrection ritual over there has probably started anyway; can't stop it now. So, for the present situation..."
Sounds came from all around.
Vic looked up, his gaze sweeping over the dozen or so "students" walking silently out of the surrounding shadows.
Their eyes were hollow, their steps perfectly synchronized. Fingers rapidly deformed and extended into dark gun barrels; blades popped out from elbows with a cold glint; various lethal weapons emerged from every joint of their bodies.
They were literally walking, human-shaped arsenals.
The lead mechanical puppet tilted its head, its synthesized voice devoid of emotion.
"As you 'anticipated' earlier, I have loaded some 'slapstick performance' function modules into these mechanical bodies. Do the current visual effects meet your aesthetic standards?"
The smile on Vic's face froze. He subconsciously raised a hand, wanting to slap his own mouth.
"Dammit..."
He muttered, his tone full of regret.
"Why did you have to run your mouth! Why did you make random suggestions! Are you happy now?!"
In the quad, parents watched helplessly as the "students" emerging from the shadows twisted and deformed, revealing cold metal skeletons and dark muzzles. Before they could even scream—
"ENEMY ATTACK!!!"
Some student shouted at the top of their lungs. The voice even sounded... excited?
In the next second, a scene that stunned every parent unfolded.
Those elite students, who usually held books like Advanced Potions and Analysis of Ancient Runes, reached for their waistbands or inside their jackets in perfect unison.
Click-clack! Click-clack!
The crisp sounds of loading chambers echoed one after another.
Handguns of various shapes and highly personalized styles were expertly leveled in their hands.
"FIRE!"
Someone shouted again.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Deafening gunshots instantly tore apart the peaceful atmosphere of Parents' Weekend. Bullets rained down like a storm upon the mechanical puppets.
What made the parents' scalps tingle even more was that, with the precise ballistic correction assistance of a few Psychic students—
Their fingers swiped rapidly in the air, and almost no bullet missed its target!
Every attack slammed precisely into the puppets' joints, optical sensors, and power cores, exploding into dazzling balls of sparks!
"What... what kind of fucking school is this?!"
A father in an expensive suit instinctively tried to pull his son behind him, only to find he couldn't move him an inch.
His son, who wore gold-rimmed glasses and was usually obsessed with researching Ancient Babylonian, was currently kneeling on one knee. His hands held a modified Glock as steady as a rock, executing textbook rapid-fire bursts.
Every shot precisely hit a puppet's head sensor.
On the other side, a mother in a Chanel suit watched, jaw-dropped, as her precious daughter—who was usually only interested in tea parties and horoscopes—efficiently swapped magazines, performed a tactical roll behind a statue, and continued firing.
Elite boarding school? This was clearly a Special Forces training camp! No, a terrorist crash course!
Dr. 077, watching this through the shared vision of the "Terminators," almost had his data stream destabilize.
These students' tactical movements... are too professional! They even spontaneously formed crossfire nets and covering echelons! These are STUDENTS?!
The parents whipped their heads toward the person in charge—Principal Larissa Weems—hoping for an explanation.
Then they saw an even more suffocating scene.
Principal Weems had, at some point, shed her elegant blazer, wearing only a white shirt and her tactical skirt.
She held a custom pearl-white pistol with gold trim in each hand, firing alternately at amazing speed, blowing up incoming mechanical puppets one by one with pinpoint accuracy.
Her free hands weren't idle either. She skillfully pulled out tactical grenades, bit the pins off with her teeth, and tossed them precisely into the densest clusters of puppets.
BOOM! BOOM!
The blast waves ruffled her hair, but her cold gaze didn't waver. There was only a monstrous rage that said, "I have had ENOUGH."
Trouble at the Harvest Festival. Trouble at the Rave'N. And now they dare to crash Parents' Weekend?
Do they think Nevermore is a public toilet? Come and go as they please?
Then we fight! Beat them to death!
Watching the Principal's fluid combat movements, only one thought remained in the parents' minds:
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree... so THIS is the root cause!
"Dad! Quick, give me money!"
A student who had emptied all his clips anxiously patted his empty pockets. He suddenly reached into his father's expensive suit jacket, fished out a crocodile skin wallet, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and waved it frantically, shouting:
"Vic! The usual! Two more cases of 9mm Parabellum! I want the ones with anti-magic enchantments! And some offensive grenades!"
"Coming right up! Grand Opening Sale! Parents' Weekend Special! All ammo half off! Buy ten cases, get a free Sweetheart Grenade!"
Vic's cheerful voice rang out.
He had somehow wheeled out a pushcart piled high with bright yellow ammo crates and various grenades. Like a battlefield hawker, he dodged stray bullets while precisely tossing crates of ammo—whoosh, whoosh—to students in need.
He even had time to pull out a card reader:
"Cash, credit, or collateral accepted! First-time top-ups over a hundred grand get a custom holster for free!"
Esther and Murray Sinclair turned stiffly to look at their daughter Enid, who usually only acted cute and begged for chocolate.
"Are these the handicrafts you mentioned?"
At this moment, Enid was hiding behind an overturned dessert table. She held a bright pink Desert Eagle with both hands, firing consecutively—BANG BANG BANG—at a mechanical puppet rushing toward her.
The recoil numbed her wrists, but her eyes shone with excitement as she muttered:
"Hit the joints! Yes! Just like that!"
Feeling her parents' burning gaze, Enid took a moment to look back, flashing a sweet, slightly sheepish smile:
"Hehe, Vic hand-rubbed these out himself! Every part was polished! Purely handcrafted artisan goods! No problem!"
Esther: "..."
Murray: "..."
They looked at the pink Desert Eagle in their daughter's hand—obviously a weapon of war but insisted upon as a "handicraft"—then at the Principal and students engaged in feverish combat in the quad, and finally at the arms-dealing boyfriend happily peddling ammunition.
The couple exchanged a silent look, seeming to reach a consensus.
Mr. Murray silently pulled out his checkbook.
Esther began to seriously consider whether she should replace their family chef, who only knew how to make desserts, with a retired special forces soldier.
Nevermore Academy... truly lived up to its reputation.