1:53 PM.
Lina and Guts stood at the exit of Room 49.
The main street of the ruined city stretched to the horizon behind them, the rubble of buildings casting distorted shadows under the cobalt blue sky. A collapsed lamppost lay across the road, its glass shards crushed into powder—marks left by the forty-nine battle zones ahead.
The bandage on Guts' left arm was finally removed.
Without that grayish-white restraint, his forearm was a full circle thinner than his right. Muscle atrophy. The price of two weeks in bed.
But the warhammer in his right hand was new.
Rank D. Strength-Constitution dual attributes. The alloy surface of the hammerhead had a layer of dark blue energy patterns, perfectly suited to Guts' grip angle—the curvature of the handle positioned his hand in the most effortless position. A dungeon drop from Allen. A custom-made item.
Lina's crescent daggers were different now.
Not a different weapon. The surface of the twin blades had acquired a dark metallic sheen—the "Shadow Attachment" effect, added by Allen's item customization system. The blades twirled silently between her fingers.
A thin chain hung around her neck. A C-rank perception necklace.
The reward Allen had promised her. The one from the Ash Sewers.
"Rules explained." Allen's voice came through the ruined city's internal broadcast system.
Reflected twice by the rubble, it carried a metallic echo.
"Room 50 ahead. The final boss room." Guts' warhammer stopped spinning.
"Boss Rank—A-rank." Lina's daggers also stopped.
"Name: Abyss Watcher. Special Ability—Adaptive Evolution. Regenerates after each defeat and is completely immune to attacks that cause death." The broadcast echoed a third time through the empty, dead city before fading away.
"You don't need to win." Pause. A slap.
"Test target—survive for thirty seconds." Guts slung the warhammer over his shoulder. The weight of the hammerhead made the tendons in his right shoulder bulge.
"A-rank Boss. C-rank plus D-rank. Thirty seconds."
He twisted his neck. The popping of his joints was particularly crisp in the silent street.
"Boss, aren't you overestimating us?"
There was no response over the loudspeaker.
Lina glanced at Guts.
Guts glanced at Lina.
The two of them simultaneously turned towards the door of room fifty.
The door was different from the previous forty-nine.
The doors of the other rooms were in the style of a ruined city—rusty fire doors, collapsed roller shutters, warped wooden panels. Each one carried the desolate feel of a post-apocalyptic city.
This door was black.
Pure black. No rust. No handle. No hinges. The surface was so smooth it reflected the silhouettes of two people, but the reflection was distorted—like a funhouse mirror, but not warped, just out of focus. Looking at her own reflection, she felt that the reflection wasn't herself.
Lina's sensory necklace began to heat up.
Not a warning-level burning sensation. It was a continuous, even heat—the overload reaction of a Class C accessory to Class A energy radiation.
Gus's hand tightened its grip on the hammer handle by three millimeters.
The door wasn't pushed open.
It opened by itself.
Inward. Silent. Like a mouth opening.
Behind the door was no room.
No architectural ruins, no streets, no that eternal cobalt blue sky.
Pure black.
The ground was an endless black mirror. Footsteps made no sound, but you could feel its hardness—not glass, not metal. Like stepping on the surface tension of some liquid, you might sink in at any moment, but you wouldn't.
There was no ceiling.
Looking up—endless void. Not darkness. It was "nothing." The visual system couldn't find any reference points above, and the brain started to race. Lena averted her gaze from overhead the instant she reached the entrance.
Looking upwards for too long would cause a loss of balance.
Guts wasn't so quick. He looked for two seconds longer. His left foot wobbled slightly.
Then they saw something in the center of the room.
Two and a half meters.
Allen watched Lena and Guts stop at the doorway on the monitoring screen of the management panel.
He could read their status bars. Heart rate, respiratory rate, adrenaline level—the management panel overlaid the challengers' physiological data on the monitoring screen as a semi-transparent overlay.
Lina's heart rate: 94 per minute. High, but still within her combat range.
Guts' heart rate: 112 per minute.
He hadn't entered yet.
The Abyss Watcher stood in the very center of the black mirror.
Completely clad in jet-black armor. Every plate was perfectly joined, without any trace of forging. It wasn't like armor—it was like a body sculpted from some kind of black mineral.
A broadsword was embedded in the mirror. There were no cracks, no ripples where the blade entered the mirror. It was as if the sword had always been there.
Through the gaps in the helmet visor, a dark red hue shone.
Two dots. Neither lit nor dark. Simply present.
It didn't move.
But Guts stopped.
Allen saw on the monitor why Guts stopped. Not hesitation. Not judgment. A D-class warrior's combat instincts executed a primal command on Guts's body.
Freeze.
When facing a predator at the top of the food chain, the prey's first reaction isn't to flee. It's to freeze. Before the brain can even assess "can I escape?", the limbs lock into place—reducing movement, reducing the probability of being noticed.
A hundred million years of evolutionary instinct.
The passive pressure field of an A-class monster triggered a D-class warrior's survival instinct within thirty meters.
Guts froze for half a second. Then his willpower overcame his instincts. His grip on the hammer handle tightened again. His jaw clenched.
"Damn it." He cursed, stepping over the threshold.
Lina followed behind.
Her steps were steadyer than Guts'. A C-level's physiological fear response to an A-level was a level less severe than a D-level's—but Allen saw on the monitoring data that the inside of her wrist was trembling. The tip of the dagger vibrated with an amplitude of 0.3 millimeters.
So subtle that Guts couldn't see it. An A-level monster could see it.
The two stood twenty meters from the Abyss Watcher.
The Watcher didn't move. Light from its dark red pupils, filtering through the gaps in its mask, fell on the black mirror, casting two blurry red reflections. The reflections ended precisely at Lina and Guts' feet.
They were standing within its "line of sight."
Literally.
Allen pressed the timer on the management panel.
Thirty seconds countdown.
Lina moved first.
Shadow Step.
Her figure stretched from its spot into a dark afterimage—not the full form of the F-rank Shadow Step, but a modified version she'd obtained from Allen's dungeon. It wasn't as fast as the original, but its trajectory was more treacherous. The angle of attack was forty-five degrees to the Watcher's left rear.
The Crescent Moon Dagger, shimmering with a shadowy black sheen, aimed directly at the seam between the Watcher's neck armor plates.
That seam was only two millimeters wide.
Lina's precision was sufficient. A C-rank assassin's positioning ability was pushed to its limit in this strike.
The blade tip was three millimeters from the seam.
The Watcher's head tilted.
Two centimeters.
Just two centimeters. The joint between the neck and shoulder armor shifted exactly three millimeters with the tilt of the head—the seam shifted away from the Crescent Moon's attack trajectory.
The blade tip slid across the armor surface. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed sharply in the dark room.
No sparks. The energy attached to the shadow was absorbed by the armor plate.
Then it moved.
The greatsword was drawn from the mirror without any preparatory stance. No charging, no waist rotation, no footwork adjustment. One hand. A horizontal sweep.
Allen measured it in slow motion on the monitor—the time from the blade's movement to completing the sweep's arc was 0.14 seconds.
Lina's C-level dynamic vision limit was a 0.08-second reaction window.
Her eyes caught a black line.
Not the shape of the sword. It was the afterimage left on her retina by the sword's path.
Her body was faster than her consciousness.
She crouched.
The sword's wind swept overhead.
Lina's ponytail shortened by three centimeters in the impact. The severed strands floated in the black void for a second before landing on the mirror.
Guts charged in from the front.
This was their pre-arranged tactic—Lina harassed the flanks to draw attention, while Guts attacked from the front. A standard D-level warrior's fighting style. Simple. Direct.
The warhammer slammed into the Watcher's side with full force.
Guts poured all of his D-rank strength into this single blow. The dark blue energy patterns on the hammerhead exploded into a ring-shaped shockwave upon impact—the sound of compressed air like a muffled thunderclap.
Dark red ripples spread across the armor.
They radiated outwards from the point of impact, like pebbles thrown into a pond.
The ripples disappeared after reaching the edges of the armor.
Guts's full-force strike. Eighty percent of the impact force was absorbed by the ripples. The actual damage transmitted to the Watcher's body was almost zero.
The Watcher didn't flinch.
Its left hand—its free hand—reached down.
Five jet-black armored fingers closed, gripping the head of Guts's warhammer.
Guts tried to pull the hammer back.
The hammerhead remained motionless.
His D-rank strength was concentrated in one hand. That hand didn't tighten. It didn't exert force. It simply held it. Like holding a pen.
The Abyss Watcher's crimson eyes looked down at Guts.
Allen read Guts's current physiological data on the monitor: Heart rate 148. Respiratory rate 36. Adrenaline level: Red.
But what caught Allen's attention wasn't the data.
It was Guts's expression.
Guts wasn't one to easily show emotion. Eight months as a henchman in the Black Serpent Guild had welded most of his emotional channels shut. Since Allen knew him, he'd seen him in pain, seen him exhausted, seen him snarling and pulling Lina back in front of the boss in the Ash Sewers.
He'd never seen this expression.
Guts was looking up at the jet-black armor that towered half a meter above him. Crimson light fell on his face. That expression wasn't fear—fear has countermeasures. It wasn't despair—despair has an end.
It was understanding.
Pure, undeniable understanding—he was completely negated on a power level. It wasn't "unable to beat him." It was "not on the same level."
Like someone pushing a mountain with all their might.
The mountain didn't push him. It just stood there.
Seven seconds.
Allen glanced at the timer. Seven seconds had passed.
Lina's second Shadowstep cut in from another angle. This time she didn't aim at the gap—she aimed at the wrist of the Watcher's hand gripping Guts' hammerhead.
The crescent dagger struck the wrist guard. The energy imbued with shadow exploded into a black dot of light at the point of contact.
The Watcher released its grip.
Not forced to release. It chose to release.
Because its right hand had already completed its action—the greatsword's blade struck Guts' breastplate flat.
The force was extremely light. Like tapping a table with knuckles.
Guts flew backward.
Eight meters.
His back slid three meters across the black mirror surface before stopping. A dent sank in the center of his breastplate—its shape perfectly matching the width of the greatsword's blade. The dent wasn't deep. Two centimeters.
If the Watcher had increased that force by just one more ounce—the dent would have pierced through the breastplate, ribs, and left lung.
It was controlling its force.
Allen watched this detail from behind the monitor. This A-rank Boss, bought for 5,000 BP, had a built-in power calibration function. This wasn't mentioned in the blueprint instructions.
It learned it on its own.
Fourteen seconds.
Lina's Shadowstep activated for the third time. Stamina depletion had reduced the precision of her steps—the entry angle was five degrees larger than the previous two. This five-degree error was negligible in a C-rank vs. C-rank fight.
But fatal against an A-rank.
The Watcher's greatsword slashed vertically.
Not at Lina's body. At a point 0.3 seconds before her Shadowstep landing point.
It predicted her landing point.
Lina's body couldn't change direction due to the momentum of Shadowstep. She watched the black vertical line slash down towards her predetermined landing point—Guts' warhammer struck the blade from the side.
A-rank power couldn't alter the trajectory of an A-rank attack. But it did change the trajectory by two centimeters.
The greatsword slammed into the mirror three centimeters from Lina's left shoulder. The mirror shattered, creating a crater two meters in diameter. The shards weren't glass—they were some kind of black, shimmering substance.
Lina tumbled away from the edge of the sword's edge. The shockwave tore a gash in her left sleeve.
Nineteen seconds.
Guts's breastplate dented, pressing against his bruised ribs with each breath. The pain reduced his hammer-throwing frequency from twice per second to 1.5 times.
The warhammer was deflected for the fourth time. The fifth time. The sixth time.
With each impact, dark red ripples appeared and disappeared on the Watcher's armor. Each time, the recoil tore new cracks in Guts's hand.
The seventh time—the Watcher didn't deflect the warhammer.
It caught the hammerhead with one hand. The same posture as the first time. Fingers closed.
The greatsword in her other hand rose, blade facing Guts' face.
It didn't strike.
It just remained there.
Dark red eyes met Guts' gaze.
Distance: Forty centimeters.
Twenty-four seconds.
Lina's breathing rate surged to forty. Heart rate: 163. The grip on the crescent dagger weakened—sweaty hands, lactic acid buildup, the limits of her C-level stamina.
She moved anyway.
Fourth Shadowstep. The afterimage was half as faint as the previous three.
The crescent dagger left a shallow mark on the Watcher's back armor.
Just a shallow mark.
Less than a tenth the thickness of the armor plate.
But it was the only "scar" left on the Watcher in this battle.
Twenty-seven seconds.
The Watcher released Guts' hammerhead. Turned.
A third horizontal sweep of the greatsword.
Lina couldn't crouch down. The muscles in her thighs trembled—not from fear, but from the muscle fibers malfunctioning due to excessive lactic acid. Her knees refused to bend again.
Crescent daggers crossed in front of her.
The clanging of metal echoed three times across the black mirror.
Lina was thrown to Guts's side. The two slid four meters across the mirror before stopping.
Thirty seconds.
A short beep came from the internal broadcast of the management panel.
"Time's up." The Abyss Watcher's greatsword stopped in mid-air.
Crimson eyes stared at the two on the ground. Its reflection was mirrored—the reflected eyes were also watching.
Then it stepped back.
The greatsword plunged back into the mirror. Silent. No ripples.
Back to its initial position.
Motionless.
As if nothing had happened.
—When Lina emerged from room fifty, there were three red marks on the back of her hand. Not from the sword—but from the ruptured capillaries caused by the sword's force striking her skin. His ponytail was three centimeters shorter.
Guts sat on the gravel outside the door, leaning against a crooked lamppost, the dent in his breastplate making his ribs protest with every breath.
"Did I just fight a god for thirty seconds?"
Lina squatted beside him. The crescent dagger was still in her hand, unsheathed. Not forgotten—her fingers were cramped, unable to loosen their grip.
"Not a god. An A-rank."
"Is there a difference?"
Lina didn't answer.
Allen replayed the battle replay in the monitoring room of the management panel.
The Abyss Watcher's status bar updated with a line on the right side of the screen.
[Adaptation Count: 0→1]
[Recorded Attack Patterns: Shadow Step - Side-Slash Variation (C-rank Assassin); Frontal Charge - Heavy Hammer Combo (D-rank Warrior).]
[The above attack methods have been immune. The Watcher will automatically generate a targeted counter-strategy the next time it encounters a similar attack.]
If the next challenger uses the same method—they won't even have a chance to "leave a shallow mark."
Allen saved the video to the archive.
He felt a heavy weight pressing on his chest.
It wasn't entirely satisfaction.
Part of it was—he had just been sitting behind the monitor, watching Lina's ponytail get cut off. Watching Guts be flicked eight meters away by a single finger. Watching two people he knew fight tooth and nail against the monster he'd created, just to survive for thirty seconds.
He created it.
That two-and-a-half-meter-long black armor, that light-devouring greatsword, those dark red pupils—all were products he'd bought blueprints for with five thousand BP and personally deployed.
The red mark on Lina's hand was his signature.
This thought lingered in his mind for a second. Then it was overtaken by another thought.
A sense of security.
He had a weapon.
A weapon kept deep within, growing stronger with each battle, forever learning and forever evolving. Anyone who wanted to crush his dungeon had to first pass through forty-nine combat zones, and then—using every means at the hands of the Abyss Watcher.
Each means could only be used once.
Allen stood up from the shadow of pillar P2-17. His legs didn't tremble. The emptiness left by the self-catalysis in his chest completely subsided after the upgrade.
Target: Room 27. His old observation post.
On the management panel, Gus's heart rate had finally dropped below 90. Lena's finger spasms were subsiding.
They'll be alright.
Allen dismissed the thought.
— 3:41 PM that day.
The management panel's external surveillance detected a white official vehicle at the east entrance of the Red Hook area.
The GWA logo on the roof stood out starkly against the gray backdrop of the warehouse district, like a puddle of bleach spilled on concrete.
Allen's first thought was Robert Chen.
No.
There was only one dot of light inside the car. Classification: B.
The management panel's public information module automatically compared it to the publicly available personnel directory of GWA New York. The result popped up 0.4 seconds later.
Monica Vance. Deputy Director of Compliance Review, GWA New York.
Allen's gaze lingered on the surname "Vance" for two seconds.
Kessler & Vance. Midtown Manhattan. The Black Serpent Guild's go-to law firm.
The letterhead printed on the first page of the seventeen-page contract.
Same last name.
Allen added a note to his memo.
"Vance. Law firm. GWA Compliance Department. Check connections." The white limousine didn't head towards the warehouse district. It stopped in front of the Red Hook Community Management Center. Monica Vant's dot of light remained inside that building for one hour and fifty-seven minutes.
5:38 PM.
A notification popped up on Allen's phone.
Not from the admin panel—it was from the GWA official app's public channel.
When he downloaded the app three months ago, he only enabled push notifications for the Dungeon Outbreak Warning. Public notifications had always been off.
This one was a forced push.
Bypassing all user settings.
[Underground City Security Review Notice] GWA's New York branch has accepted a security compliance review application regarding the "Unregistered Underground City in Brooklyn Warehouse District" (tentative number NYC-BK-TEMP-001).
The review applicant is the Black Serpent Guild.
Review content: Assessment of the underground city's operational safety, energy stability, and potential threats to surrounding residential areas.
During the review, the underground city may be required to temporarily close for inspection.
Estimated review time: 72 hours.
Allen read the notice twice.
First, the content. Second, the logic.
The thugs blocking the road at VictorStone withdrew less than twenty hours ago. The surveillance cameras on the north wall of the warehouse stopped pulsating less than eighteen hours ago. GWA's seventh statement was issued less than twenty-four hours ago.
And then this.
GWA's seventh code of conduct just slapped Black Serpent in the face—Black Serpent retaliated with another department of GWA.
"Security review."
Legal. Compliant. High-sounding.
Not coercion. Not economic blockade. It was an official document.
If the review is initiated—the Warehouse Dungeon will be closed for seventy-two hours. Zero visitors. Zero BP. All adventurers queuing on the forums will cancel their appointments.
Seventy-two hours later, VictorStone will arrive with a new contract. The terms are exactly the same as the last one.
"Sign it or not?" Allen placed his phone on his lap.
The GWA notification on the screen was still lit. Blue background, white text.
He didn't smash anything.
He took a deep breath—
No. He didn't take a deep breath.
He opened the management panel.
Function directory. From top to bottom. Blueprint Library, Client Tracking, External Monitoring, Signal Analysis, Material Synthesis, Domain Expansion—
At the very bottom.
A gray icon he had seen but never clicked.
"Dungeon Registration Application."
Gray. Not the gray of being locked. The gray of "you've never needed it, so you haven't noticed it."
Allen clicked on the description.
[Dungeon architects can submit formal registration applications for dungeons to GWA through the System.] [Registered dungeons will receive an official GWA number, a legal operating license, and basic property protection. Any security review of a registered dungeon requires administrative authorization at the S-level or higher.] Allen's finger stopped when he read this line.
Administrative authorization at the S-level or higher.
The highest administrative level in the GWA New York branch is A-level. S-level authorization requires going through the Washington headquarters process. Going through the headquarters process means filing and approval by the Senate Awakened Committee.
VictorStone is an S-level Awakened. Not an S-level Administrator.
Two things.
He continued reading.
[Information required for registration to be disclosed—Dungeon level, geographical coordinates, basic configuration (number of rooms/monster level range).]
[Information not required to be disclosed—Architect identity. Operators can use System authentication codes.] Identity not disclosed.
Allen's finger hovered over the edge of the "Submit Application" button.
He hadn't used this function before. Not because he didn't know—but because he couldn't.
Registration requires disclosing the dungeon's level and coordinates. At F-level, disclosing coordinates is tantamount to suicide. At Rank E, publicly announcing the rank is tantamount to telling everyone, "There's an easy mine to bully here."
Rank D.
The Abyss Watcher awaits in room fifty. The Adaptation Counter is at zero. Any intruder's first attack will be recorded and learned; a second identical attack will result in complete immunity.
It's Allen's lock.
The lock is installed. The door can now be labeled.
Allen presses Submit.
Application information automatically fills in.
Dungeon Name: Brooklyn Ruins.
Rank: D.
Coordinates: Underground, Warehouse Street, Red Hook District.
Operator Codename: Architect_00.
Operator Identity: Confidential (System Authentication Valid).
Submit.
System's review doesn't take seventy-two hours.
It doesn't take seventy-two minutes.
It doesn't take seventy-two seconds.
Three seconds.
Because System itself is the core component of the Dungeon Architect system. It doesn't need to "review" a dungeon it created—that would be like the left hand reviewing the right.
Three seconds later, a blue confirmation box popped up on the management panel.
[Registration Complete.]
[New record added to GWA official database—NYC-BK-0513 "Brooklyn Ruins". Level D. Legally registered. Operating permit valid.] Allen stared at the number.
NYC-BK-0513.
A legal underground city protected by GWA property laws from this moment on.
Any security review application without Level S or higher administrative authorization—automatically rejected.
The review that Monica Vant spent two hours sitting in the community management center to get out—was worthless.
Allen opened the DeepRift forum. Logged in to Architect_00.
Posted.
Title: "Brooklyn Warehouse Underground City has been directly registered through the GWA System. Number NYC-BK-0513. Legally operating. Welcome to continue the challenge." Two paragraphs.
The first paragraph is a screenshot of the registration number. The query page of the GWA official database. Blue background, white text. Anti-counterfeiting watermark.
The second paragraph.
"To the Black Serpent Guild—you can withdraw your security review application. Reviewing a GWA-registered dungeon requires S-level or higher administrative authorization." Allen paused on the keyboard for a second.
Then added the last sentence.
"Mr. Victor Stone, do you have S-level administrative authorization?" Send.
—Forty seconds after the post was published.
The number of comments exceeded one hundred.
Allen didn't refresh. The forum monitoring module in the management panel automatically captured the real-time ranking of the top-rated comments.
First comment. B-level verified user.
"He registered directly using System??? What kind of operation is this??? I've worked at GWA for two years and have never heard of this process."
Second comment. C-level verified.
"The prerequisite for direct System registration is that you must be the 'creator' of that dungeon. Natural dungeons don't need registration—they are numbered after GWA's on-site survey. There's only one situation where you can use the System channel—you built it."
Third comment. Unverified.
"Wait."
Fourth comment. Same unverified user.
"The Architect didn't 'discover' a dungeon."
Fifth comment. It's the same person.
"He really did build an underground city."
Sixth. Level A Certification.
"What are you talking about? Humans can't create underground cities. Underground cities are a product of the Cataclysm. GWA's official stance has always been—"
Seventh. Level B+ Certification.
"GWA's official stance was stated three years ago. Three years ago, no one even imagined that an Awakened could register an underground city through the System."
Eighth. Anonymous.
"So we've always had someone on our forum who can create underground cities out of thin air. He's been designing bosses, setting traps, and customizing equipment for us."
Ninth. Anonymous.
"My knees are a little weak." The post's comments surpassed three thousand within twelve minutes. It surpassed seven thousand within twenty-six minutes.
DeepRift's servers crashed at forty-one minutes.
Allen didn't continue looking at the forum.
He switched to the external information aggregation module in the management panel—the system automatically scraped all publicly available information related to "Architect_00," "Brooklyn Ruins," and "Man-made Underground City."
The keyword popularity curve went from flat to a vertical line within an hour.
Three international news websites reported on the post within 47 minutes.
CNN Awakeners Channel: "World's First Suspected 'Man-Made Underground City' Appears in New York—System Registration Records Have Been Independently Verified by Multiple Parties." Reuters News Flash: "An anonymous Awakener with the codename Architect_00 registered a Class D underground city through the GWA System. GWA Washington headquarters has not yet responded."
The third one wasn't in English.
Korean. The official news agency of the Seoul Awakeners Federation.
The translation software's gist:
"If humans can create underground cities—the rules have changed."
Allen turned off the information aggregation module.
The management panel was silent for three seconds.
Then the entry data from the customer tracking system started jumping.
Warehouse area main entrance. One team entered. Two teams. Four teams.
6 PM to 10 PM—19 teams. Three times the number at the same time the previous day.
Not just old customers from the Red Hook area. Four teams had forum IDs registered in Manhattan. One was from Queens. One was from New Jersey.
They took the subway and drove the highway to Brooklyn's warehouse district—just to see for themselves if this "man-made underground city" was real.
Allen sat in front of pillar P2-17.
The BP counter on the management panel ticked in the corner of his vision.
He noticed a comment in the post's comment section. It was pushed to the middle of the second page—not a highly upvoted comment, but Allen's gaze lingered on it for three seconds.
A D-level verified user.
"Going to browse Architect's underground city is like voting. Voting with your feet."
—11 PM.
His phone vibrated.
A text message.
Not a forum notification. A phone number.
Robert Chen.
A sentence. No salutation. No signature format. Plain text.
"You just painted the biggest target on your back. Every government agency, every S-rank guild, every intelligence service in the world is going to be looking for you now."
Allen read it.
There was another line below.
"Was it worth it?"
Allen didn't reply. He locked the text message screen.
Was it worth it? He'd answer that after he found out who pressed the close button three years ago.
A second message popped up on the admin panel.
Not a blue border. Not red.
Gray.
The font size was a size smaller than any standard text on the admin panel. The character spacing was uneven. It looked like something had squeezed in character by character from the cracks in the system code.
No source identifier. No IP address. No timestamp.
The admin panel's security protocols didn't trigger any interception.
Because this message wasn't "sent in."
It grew out from the system's underlying structure.
Allen stared at the gray text.
"You exposed yourself too quickly. They'll come. Not just humans."
No signature.
But next to the last character of the message, Allen saw a tiny mark.
So small that he had to bring his face ten centimeters to the admin panel to make it out.
A.W.
The gray text lingered on the screen for seven seconds.
Then, starting from the last character, it dissolved away, character by character. Like ink being absorbed back onto paper.
Seven seconds later, the gray notification box on the management panel was completely empty.
Nothing remained.
Allen leaned back against the pillar.
A drop of water dripped from the drainpipe.
He wrote two lines in his memo.
First line: "NYC-BK-0513. Legally registered. Victor Stone's next step—anticipating." Second line: "A.W. Fourth contact. Distance—unknown. Method—systematic penetration. Intent—unknown." He paused for a second.
He added three words after the second line.
"It's urging."