Steven and One reached the outer boundary of the Sanctuary.
The noise reached them before the gates did.
Voices.
Movement.
Trade.
Life inside controlled chaos.
But just before stepping fully into view—
One stopped.
Steven almost walked past him before noticing.
"What is it?" Steven asked.
One looked down at the heads he carried.
Blood had dried along the edges of torn flesh. The metallic scent lingered heavily. The laser abomination's skull was partially cracked, its inner structure still faintly glowing beneath damaged tissue.
"They will attract too much attention," One said calmly.
Steven glanced at the grotesque trophies.
He understood immediately.
There would be noise.
Questions.
Interference.
He scratched the side of his jaw lightly.
"Even if we hide them," Steven replied, "we'll have to bring them out again for the transaction."
He paused.
"There's no real point in avoiding attention."
One remained silent.
Steven continued, his tone steady but firm.
"And if anyone wants to cause trouble…"
A faint edge entered his voice.
"Don't underestimate our group."
He looked ahead toward the inner Sanctuary.
"With me here, nothing will happen."
Then after a brief pause—
"And if it does… Marco will settle it."
That name alone carried weight.
One considered it.
Logically.
Emotionally.
Then his expression shifted slightly — the look of someone who had finished calculating and accepted the result.
He nodded.
They continued forward.
The moment they crossed into clearer view—
Everything changed.
Gasps.
Sharp whispers.
Startled exclamations.
Eyes widened across the street.
The laser abomination's head was unmistakable.
Several mutants instinctively stepped backward.
"That's—" "No way…" "Is that from outside the borders?"
One mutant leaned closer, voice shaking slightly.
"That's a special-class wanderer…"
Murmurs intensified.
"Those things kill in one shot." "My neighbor died to one like that." "They roam beyond the Sanctuary limits…"
Fear mixed with awe.
Some stared at the burned interior of its skull, remembering friends and family who had never returned from outside missions.
Then attention shifted to the second head.
The assassin-type abomination.
Sleeker. Less visually overwhelming.
Several mutants frowned.
"Don't recognize that one." "Probably weaker." "Doesn't look as dangerous."
They underestimated it immediately.
As expected.
Meanwhile, Steven's expression did not change.
Not once.
As they walked deeper into the Sanctuary, the streets grew narrower.
More crowded.
More chaotic.
But something shifted in the air around them.
Steven's presence expanded subtly.
His face became colder.
Indifferent.
Unmoved by the noise.
He radiated a silent promise of violence.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't exaggerated.
But it was clear.
Anyone who blocked their path felt it instantly.
Mutants who had initially leaned forward with curiosity quickly stepped aside under his gaze.
Some lowered their heads.
Others pretended sudden interest in nearby stalls.
The path cleared.
Slowly.
Naturally.
Without a word being spoken.
By the time they reached the central gathering area—
The crowd had already thickened.
Brant noticed them first.
Then Veronica.
Then Anna.
One stopped when he saw her.
She was standing beside Veronica.
Not hiding behind her father.
Not shrinking away.
Beside her.
One's expression shifted into mild surprise.
He had not expected that.
He did not understand the reason.
But he did not question it.
As long as nothing had happened to her—
It was acceptable.
The mutant father stared in disbelief.
"They're back…?"
"So soon?"
Murmurs erupted again.
"That's impossible." "He's just a child." "There's no way he killed that laser abomination."
Several turned suspicious eyes toward Steven.
"It was him." "He did the hunting."
"The boy's just carrying the heads."
The speculation spread rapidly.
But then—
From within the crowd, a few stronger mutants stepped forward.
Their expressions were far less casual.
They had followed Steven and One earlier.
With different intentions.
Malicious ones.
They had expected to exploit any sign of weakness or opportunity.
Instead, they had witnessed something else entirely.
One of them spoke quietly, but firmly.
"The Man never left the vehicle."
Silence rippled outward.
"He stayed back."
Another added:
"The kid went alone."
"In some kinda mechanical armor."
The crowd froze.
The implications settled heavily.
Alone?
Against a laser-class abomination?
And returned?
Even after knowing about the mechanical armour, the mutant crowd didn't care about it.
A collective sharp intake of breath echoed across the area.
Eyes shifted toward One.
The same boy they had mocked hours ago.
The same boy they expected to die.
Now standing calmly with proof hanging from his hands.
Some felt fear.
Some felt respect.
Some felt something darker.
If even the youngest member of Steven's group possessed this level of strength—
Then what did that say about the others?
The Sanctuary's balance of power had just shifted.
And everyone felt it.
But the shock ran deeper than simple strength.
It wasn't just that he had killed a laser-class abomination.
It was what he was.
Or rather—
What he wasn't.
During the early days of the Inkforce Pollution, statistics had quickly become survival knowledge.
Children had suffered the worst.
The conceptual pain.
The emotional instability. The overwhelming psychological pressure of forced mutation.
Nearly ninety percent of them had failed to withstand it.
They had not adapted.
They had not stabilized.
They had become Abominations.
Mindless. Distorted. Broken.
Another eight percent survived through animal-based mutations.
Fox. Dog. Cat. Bear. Serpent.
Instinct-driven evolutions that anchored their unstable minds through borrowed essence.
They were considered fortunate.
Stable.
Manageable.
But the final two percent—
They were something else entirely.
They survived without animal anchoring.
Without mental collapse.
Without partial mutation pathways.
And the result?
They became monsters of raw power.
Recklessly strong.
Unpredictable.
Terrifying.
No one in the Sanctuary ever spoke lightly about that two percent.
Because every single known example of them had rewritten local power structures.
No one dared provoke them.
No one dared test them.
Now—
They looked at One.
He did not possess visible animal traits.
No fur. No claws. No instinctive aura.
But he also did not radiate the oppressive, overwhelming pressure associated with the infamous two percent.
He appeared…
Normal.
Too normal.
He had no mark of mutation on him.
And yet—
He had walked alone beyond the borders.
Faced a special-class laser abomination.
Returned.
Alive.
Carrying proof.
The math did not make sense.
The categories did not fit.
The logic failed.
And in a world where survival depended on understanding strength—
Something that did not fit into known categories was far more dangerous than something that did.
Whispers lowered.
Eyes sharpened.
Fear changed shape.
Because what stood before them was not simply a strong child.
It was an anomaly.
And anomalies were unpredictable.