The central quad of Nevermore Academy had thoroughly descended into a battlefield of absurdity and violence.
Gunshots, explosions, and the screech of tearing metal replaced the expected warm familial greetings. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and machine oil.
Wednesday surveyed her surroundings. The students who usually enjoyed quiet reading sessions and tea parties were now employing skilled tactical maneuvers, alternating cover and executing precise shots, reducing one mechanical puppet after another into smoking scrap metal.
She turned to Vic, who was encased in his symbiote beside her. Her voice remained cool, but it carried a note of understanding confirmation:
"Vic. This is your doing."
"But of course, honey!"
Vic's voice resonated through the symbiote, dripping with undisguised smugness.
"Did you think my business was limited to just some 'personalized self-defense crafts'? No, no, no. That would be a waste of my talents."
As he spoke, he swung a pitch-black tentacle, cleanly tearing a mechanical puppet that tried to approach him in half at the waist, moving as fluidly as if dismantling a toy.
"Absolutely undetectable fake gun permits, full kits of maintenance tools and consumables, 'after-school tutoring' ranging from basic marksmanship to advanced tactical formations, and even crisis management... It's a full-service package. Thoughtful, comprehensive, everything included."
Vic presented the battlefield before them—composed of students he had "empowered," who were now too well-trained to be mere students—to Wednesday as if showing off his most satisfactory product.
Wednesday's dark pupils reflected the sparks and explosions erupting around them. She nodded slightly, giving what was, in her evaluation system, top-tier praise:
"Not bad."
This was likely the closest Wednesday would ever get to a rave review in her life.
Squelch!
A pitch-black tentacle shot out like a viper, precisely piercing the chest of another "Terminator" attempting a flank attack, then yanked it violently in front of Vic.
Through the damaged metal shell, Vic scrutinized the crude wiring and cheap components inside, smacking his lips in disgust:
"Hey, buddy, the quality of your 'Terminators' is trash, isn't it? Information processing speed like a snail, casing as soft as cheese. Completely incomparable to the one I met at the old Meeting House! Shoddy manufacturing, cutting corners..."
He dragged out his tone, laced with mocking skepticism.
"Say, did you embezzle the funds and take kickbacks?"
Speaking through the robot, Dr. 077's voice remained flat and steady, carrying an honesty so blunt it was speechless:
"Your instincts are surprisingly sharp in this regard. You guessed correctly. These are indeed defective products mass-produced to siphon funds and deal with inspections from above."
"They are perfect for waste utilization. If you help me destroy them now, I will have sufficient reason to apply for new, more ample funding from my superiors."
"Good lord," Vic couldn't help but marvel. "You make money way too easily! That's basically printing cash!"
Wednesday reached out and grabbed Vic's arm, her gaze already fixed on the direction of the Crackstone Crypt.
"Stop wasting words with him. We must go immediately to stop Laurel from resurrecting Crackstone."
Vic patted the back of Wednesday's hand with his own, signaling her to stay calm.
He took a deep breath. Despite the gunpowder smoke filling the air, he seemed to catch a scent that was more obscure and nauseating.
"No need, honey," his voice lowered, carrying a definitive judgment.
"I think she's already succeeded. I can smell it... that stench of rot, like something dead for centuries just clawed its way out of a damp coffin."
Just then, another relatively intact—and somewhat leisurely—Dr. 077 robot appeared. It had somehow acquired a steaming cup of coffee and was sitting on a long table riddled with bullet holes, simulating the action of sipping.
"That foolish woman finally proved somewhat useful. She didn't waste the 'Blood Moon Simulator' I provided."
A hint of satisfaction seeped into the synthesized voice.
Vic's curiosity was instantly ignited. He pointed at the coffee cup:
"Wait, you can taste anything with that tin can body?"
"This body is a high-end custom model, with performance far exceeding the one you first encountered."
Dr. 077's mechanical puppet actually began to explain patiently, as if showing off a masterpiece.
"It has built-in high-precision chemical sensors that can collect taste signals and transmit them to my brain for analysis in real-time. I have always believed that the perfect coexistence of machine and biology is the ultimate direction of evolution."
"I haven't even blocked the pain signals. Pure machinery without sensory capability cannot be considered true evolution."
He paused, his tone seeming to carry a touch of emotion, like meeting a kindred spirit.
Whoosh—Bang!
Vic didn't wait for him to finish. He grabbed the mechanical wreckage he had just torn apart and smashed it viciously into the talking robot like throwing trash.
Dr. 077's robot agilely swatted the debris away. For the first time, the synthesized voice carried a fluctuation of something akin to displeasure:
"Has no elder ever taught you not to interrupt others when they are speaking? That is extremely rude behavior."
Vic rotated his symbiote-covered wrist, making cracking sounds. His tone became dangerous and full of anticipation:
"Sorry. I just asked casually. I didn't expect you to launch into a lecture mode. I almost fell asleep. But I only understood one thing from your nonsense—since you haven't blocked pain signals, does that mean..."
He took a step forward, the symbiote condensing on his fist into a massive heavy hammer shape. His voice was filled with eager madness:
"As long as I hit you hard enough, I can beat you until you cry, right?"
Battle was imminent.
But from the tunnel entrance nearby, an ancient and evil aura, accompanied by a thick stench of rot, began to spread.
"These outcasts are always so rude, aren't they? Like uncivilized monkeys. This world has no place for them."
Accompanied by a low voice filled with disgust and the crisp echo of a staff striking the ground, a figure walked slowly out of the dark tunnel entrance at the edge of the quad.
He was draped in tattered robes that still hinted at their former pilgrim nobility. His face was shriveled and grey, eye sockets sunken, radiating a strong scent of decay like an ancient tomb.
It was the forcibly resurrected Joseph Crackstone.
He held a twisted staff in his hand. Every step carried ancient arrogance and extreme contempt for everything around him.
Laurel Gates followed closely behind him, her face glowing with the smugness of a successful plan and near-fanatical worship.
"A bunch of shameless thieves!"
Crackstone's cloudy eyes swept over the smoke-filled quad, over the students and parents exchanging fire with the mechanical puppets. His voice was raspy and furious.
"Daring to steal my land, and building... what is this thing? A concentration camp?"
"It's a school, Ancestor."
Laurel reminded him carefully, her tone fawning.
"Silence!"
Crackstone rebuked her without turning his head, slamming his staff heavily on the ground.
"I did not ask you! You should feel ashamed, my descendant! Allowing these outcasts to occupy the nest, defiling the bloodline and glory of the Crackstone family!"
Seeing this dramatic scene, Vic couldn't help but scratch his symbiote-covered head. He turned to the Dr. 077 robot who was still "tasting" coffee, his tone filled with incredulous teasing:
"Hey, Doc. Is this your ultimate mission? Going through all this trouble, providing simulators, sending cannon fodder to stall for time? Helping a psychopathic idiot just to resurrect a... uh, let me look closely..."
Vic deliberately narrowed his eyes, looking Crackstone up and down—examining the visage that hovered somewhere between a mummy and a zombie. He delivered his conclusion with exaggerated flair:
"An 'Inferius'? Or the kind of thing even the lowest-level ghoul would detour around to avoid? When did your taste in scientific research degrade to this level? What research value does this thing have? Studying how to efficiently emit centuries-old bad breath?"