Chapter 314: The Factory of Anomalies
The City Outskirts. Abandoned Industrial Zone.
The rusted iron gates shrieked in the night wind. Jagged shards of glass in the
factory windows caught the bruised, crimson light of the moon, reflecting it
like broken teeth.
Deep within the facility, in a hollowed-out warehouse, seven distinct entities
had gathered. They were all Tier 3 Anomalies. In the ecosystem of this world,
Tier 3 was the apex of the food chain—the pyramid's peak. Each of them had a
record of liquidating hundreds of Night Watchmen. Each was a localized nightmare
for human civilization.
Yet, currently, these seven horrors were huddled together like a high-tier book
club.
"So... is the 'Blue Orb' truly extracted from this coordinate?"
The speaker was a man in a tattered tuxedo. A porcelain-white mask was pinned to
his face, featuring an exaggerated, unmoving grin. This was the Tier 3 Anomaly:
The Grinning Mask.
"Extracted. Gone. I personally performed a sensory sweep of its favorite dessert
sector," a voice rasped. It originated from a mass of black mist hovering in the
air. Within the fog, thousands of distorted human faces flickered. This was the
Tier 3 Anomaly: The Fog of a Thousand Faces.
"The crushing pressure it used to radiate has statisticalized to zero," the Fog
continued.
"Are we certain it isn't a trap? A 'Lure-and-Purge' maneuver?"
A dry, female voice spoke from the corner. It belonged to a small girl in a
crimson dress. Her eyes were solid black voids, lacking pupils or sclera. This
was the Tier 3 Anomaly: The Crimson-Dress Child.
"The data is solid," the Fog insisted, its voice tinged with a flicker of
triumph. "I dispatched thirty 'Unranked Scum' into the apartment complex where
the signature was densest. They didn't lose a single hair to the blue thing;
they were all processed by those units called Night Watchmen."
"If that creature was still anchored there, those low-tier pests wouldn't have
even made it to the lobby. They would have experienced total soul-collapse from
the passive pressure alone. I believe we have all experienced that sensation."
The Grinning Mask tilted his head, his ceramic smile glinting. "Then... can we
initiate the Harvest Phase?"
"HALT! CEASE YOUR LOGIC!"
A frantic, high-pitched voice interrupted. It belonged to a humanoid shape
completely encased in grey bandages. It sat on the floor, its limbs waving in a
frantic, uncoordinated pattern. This was the Tier 3 Anomaly: The Shrouded One.
"You brainless thralls! The signature is gone, yes, but who knows if it left a
'Fail-Safe'? What if it's merely cloaking its Od, waiting to turn us into a
comedy routine?!"
The Shrouded One's voice was vibrating with a terminal terror, making him sound
like a startled quail. "I am telling you: that entity is not a variable we can
afford to probe!"
"Tch. You coward." The Crimson-Dress Child cast a look of pure disdain at him.
"Why fear a departed shadow? Even if it left a residual strike, could it truly
stand against the seven of us combined?"
"You know nothing!" The Shrouded One lunged to his feet. Despite his fear, a
spark of annoyance flared. "Do you have any concept of why I am currently
encased in these bandages?!"
"Because your aesthetic shell is sub-standard?" the Fog mocked.
"SILENCE!" The Shrouded One shivered. "I was conducting an engagement in the
Commercial District! I was playing my signature 'Slap Game'!"
"The Slap Game?" The Grinning Mask adjusted his mask, leaning in.
"It is my primary Rule! Simple. Efficient. Elegant. I mask myself as a human,
localize a high-value female target, and politely petition her for a slap to the
face. Once the physical contact is established, the Game Protocol commences."
"If her strike lacks sufficient kinetic force to satisfy me, I consume her. If
she satisfies me... I demand more intensity, shifting the engagement into a
cycle of escalating violence until her psyche undergoes structural collapse.
Regardless of the choice, she ends up as my nutrient-input."
The Shrouded One's voice regained a sliver of pride. "The beauty of the logic is
that the victim triggers the 'Lethal Consent' themselves. Even a Tier 2 Watchman
is statistically dead the moment their hand touches my face."
"So? What went wrong?" the Child asked impatiently.
"Then..." The Shrouded One's voice began to vibrate with a fresh wave of horror.
"I localized a girl. A schoolgirl. She looked like a Tier-S specimen. Perfect
skin. High-tier features. I projected her flavor-profile would be exquisite."
"I performed my most 'Gentleman-tier' approach. I petitioned her for a slap. I
expected a scream. I expected a panicked lunge."
"And?" the Fog hissed.
"She... she just smiled," the Shrouded One whispered. "She said, 'Very well.'
And then she delivered a light, casual tap to my cheek."
The Shrouded One's frame began to convulse as if undergoing a system-reset.
"The moment her fingers touched my shell... I felt my soul being ejected from my
frame. My Rules experienced a total system-crash. My biology began to
disintegrate. It took every drop of my Od-reserves just to anchor my core and
stop the liquidation."
"In one second, my parameters dropped from Tier 3 Peak to Initial Tier 3."
He paused, his voice a terrified rasp. "My brain realized the truth instantly.
That wasn't a human. It wasn't even a High-Tier Anomaly. It was an Avatar of
Authority. A literal God in a school skirt."
"If that creature had felt even a fraction of a percent of genuine interest in
me... I would have been deleted from the archives."
Silence reclaimed the factory. The horrors of the city could mock a comrade's
cowardice, but they never questioned a peer's assessment of power. They were the
apex of the Real World; they knew the scent of a predator.
"So..." The Grinning Mask's voice was dry. "How did you achieve survival?"
"I performed a total surrender," the Shrouded One said without hesitation. "I
knelt. I performed a five-point kowtow. I used my most pathetic vocal frequency
to beg for mercy. I claimed I was an outsider who didn't know the local
protocols."
"The response?"
"The slime looked at me with a gaze that made me feel like unranked trash. It
said, 'Tedious. I assumed you were here for a challenge.' Then it simply walked
away."
"Just like that?" the Fog asked, stunned.
"Just like that. I hid in a sewer-drain for cycles. I didn't even dare to draw
atmospheric Mana until I was certain the city's aura had shifted."
The factory fell back into a heavy silence. After a long duration, the Grinning
Mask spoke.
"So... the 'Avatar' was anchored to a human girl?"
"Affirmative."
"Then the Federation's current behavior is logically sound," the Fog realized.
"That is why they have deployed the Chief to a mundane apartment block."
A flicker of cold calculation moved through the warehouse.
"Then the directive is clear," Umbra spoke for the first time. He was a tall
silhouette draped in a heavy black cloak, his face hidden in a recursive shadow.
He was the strongest of the seven.
"We do not touch the city. Not yet."
"If we agitate the Avatar's anchor, we experience liquidation. Statistical
certainty."
"But..." The Crimson-Dress Child pouted. "We just abandon the sector?"
"No," Umbra shook his head. "We Wait. We wait for the extraction to become
permanent. We wait for the entity to lose interest in the 'pests' of this
world."
"We give it one year. If the Avatar does not return to its anchor within that
window, we assume the coordinate is abandoned."
"And during this interval?" the Grinning Mask asked.
"We probe," Umbra replied. "We use low-tier thralls to test the Night Watchmen's
endurance. We use Tier 2s to gauge the Chief's response time. We gather data. We
map their fatigue."
"When the timing is optimal... we strike with terminal force."
Federal Headquarters. Command Center.
Massive screens displayed the city's real-time surveillance feed. The sectors
were color-coded by threat-rating.
Green was secure. Yellow was suspicious. Red was an active manifestation.
Currently, the screens were a dense thicket of red markers.
"Thirteen more reports of Anomaly strikes," Kenji stated, his brow furrowed as
he stared at the map. "And every single one is within a three-kilometer radius
of Sora's apartment."
"This is not a statistical coincidence."
Sarah stood beside him, clutching a report. "Analysis indicates a calculated
pattern. They are probing our defensive perimeter."
Kenji was silent for several seconds. "They have deployed Tier 3s."
"Affirmative," Sarah nodded. "Likely multiple units. A single Tier 3 cannot
maintain this level of coordinated oversight across multiple sectors."
Kenji balled his fists. "What is the status of Squad Vigil?"
"They have been in active combat for seventy-two hours straight," Sarah said,
her voice heavy. "Physical and mental parameters are hitting the 'Crash'
threshold. But the manifest-rate continues to climb."
"If this persists... the wall will break."
"Divert the Legions," Kenji ordered, his voice cold. "Pull every available Night
Watchman from the outlying sectors. Concentrate them here."
"Minister... the other cities will be left defenseless—"
"Irrelevant," Kenji interrupted. "Sora's safety is the singular win-condition.
If she is liquidated, Bochi's return will be a planetary termination event. We
aren't just protecting a girl; we are protecting the species' right to exist."
Sarah went silent. She knew the logic held. But the cost... the cost would be
thousands of human lives in the rural sectors.
"I understand," she whispered. "Executing the consolidation protocol now."
"And Sarah," Kenji added, his gaze turning to the screen. "Inform the Chief.
Tell her to prepare for the terminal scenario."
"If a Tier 3 breach occurs... she is to ensure Sora's survival at all costs."
"Even... her own."
Sarah's frame went rigid. "Minister... that is..."
"A directive," Kenji said, his tone absolute. "It is also... what the Chief
expects."
Sarah stood in silence for a moment before bowing and exiting the command
center. Kenji remained alone, watching the red lights blink across his world.
"Lord Bochi... please initiate return-transit," he whispered. "Our logic is
failing. We cannot hold the line much longer."
☆☆☆
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