The doorbell was still vibrating.
Allen's gaze was fixed on his phone screen. Union Station, Exit D3. CCTV screenshot. The pixelated face was indistinguishable, but the rust-colored mud stains on his white sneakers were more precise than fingerprints.
The soil in the Red Hook area has the highest iron content of any of New York's five boroughs. The oxidized brownish-red formed a unique pattern on the white soles. He wore these shoes from Brooklyn to Washington, D.C., and back. A seven-hour Greyhound bus journey. The Cleaners' intelligence network was two orders of magnitude more intricate than he had anticipated.
The post's views were jumping. Three hundred. Five hundred. One thousand two.
Allen logged out of the forum. His phone went off. The SIM card popped out. He pinched the edge of the chip with his fingernails, pulled it out, and stuffed it into his jeans' watch pocket.
From this moment on, he was a machine without signal.
Across from the coffee shop, the glass facade of the GWA building reflected a distorted street scene in the morning light. Hawke had walked through the side door three minutes earlier. The rhythm of his leather shoes on the steps was steady. Composed.
The bomb maker. The person begging him to defuse the bomb.
Allen tossed the cold paper cup into the trash can by the door. He walked into the Times Square subway station.
The crowd at the rush hour turnstiles formed a slow, inching line. Allen blended in. His hoodie hood pulled up to his forehead. He took off his glasses and stuffed them into his breast pocket. The world, after the focus collapsed, became a blurry mass of color—faces, billboards, subway maps—all lost their clear edges.
Shadow perception took over.
Three meters. He compressed his perception range to a point of near contact. Not a single ripple of extraordinary energy leaked out. In the high-density surveillance zone of Midtown Manhattan, spreading a Class C energy field was equivalent to lighting a match in the dark.
The cheap shoe store next to the subway station had just pulled up its shutters. Allen went in. On the shelf were canvas shoes for fifteen dollars a pair. Black. Size 42. He squatted down to change his shoes. Old white sneakers, stained with rust-colored mud, were stuffed into the bottom of the trash can—two paper coffee cups and a crumpled newspaper covered them.
The internal communication module on the management panel lit up. This route used the resonant frequency band of the underground city's core. It bypassed any human communication base stations. Neither the GWA's signal monitoring system nor the Cleansers' intelligence network could detect it.
Allen entered a command. It was sent to Lena's terminal.
"Wear my spare hoodie. Gray sock cap to cover your hair. From the Red Hook area. Take the monitored route. Brooklyn Bridge."
Lena's reply arrived four seconds later.
"I'll look stupid in your clothes."
"You're only three centimeters shorter than me. The hoodie's looseness is just right."
"Three times the daily wage."
"Two times."
"Two and a half times. Plus, next week's Rift Herbs delivered early."
"Deal. Let's go." Allen closed the communication window.
He squeezed into the carriage. Grabbing the stainless steel handrail. Around him were office workers in suits and high school students with backpacks. No one gave him a second glance.
A C-level Awakened, with his glasses off, shoes changed, and shadow perception shrunken, was indistinguishable from the seven million ordinary people on the New York subway during rush hour.
Back to P2.
Two days. He locked himself in front of the management panel, meticulously calculating the route through the 1,000 meters of Manhattan's underground tunnels. The slope of every abandoned tunnel. The lock type of every maintenance door. The diameter and spacing of every water pipe. Until he could recall the entire route with his eyes closed.
Victor's elite team didn't stop. Entering every day, crushed by the Abyss Watchers every day. BP output had stabilized at over 12,000 per day, and was still climbing.
Third day morning. BP balance: 53,400.
Enough.
—Transfer at Times Square Station. South. Get off.
Allen slid in through the side door of the employee entrance. The door wasn't locked. The rust on the hinges indicated that the door hadn't been officially used for at least six months. At the end of the corridor was an iron gate marked "MTA Maintenance Personnel Only." The lock was an old-fashioned padlock. A four-digit combination. The control panel scanned the lock's internal structure—the four most worn gears corresponded to the numbers: 1-9-7-2.
The lock popped open.
He entered an abandoned old railway tunnel. Emergency lights illuminated the tracks and sleepers every thirty meters, creating alternating sections of light and shadow. The air was thick with the mixed smells of rust, engine oil, and stagnant water.
Continuing down.
Second floor. An old subway tunnel, out of service for thirty years. Moss grew on the rails. The walls seeped water. White mineral crystals seeped from the brickwork, forming irregular patterns.
Third floor. A deep water supply pipeline maintenance tunnel for the Water Authority. Two-meter-diameter cast iron pipes lined the walls. Condensation on the pipe walls, under gravity, formed thin streams that dripped down the seams.
Allen's canvas shoes trod the slippery cast-iron steps. Each step required lowering his center of gravity. There were no handrails. To his left was a two-meter-wide pipe; to his right, a dark shaft.
Shadow perception spread within a three-meter radius. There were no GWA monitoring devices at this depth. A thousand meters of rock and infrastructure completely neutralized the signals from conventional energy scanners.
The feel under his feet changed from cast iron to rough rock.
He'd arrived.
The depth gauge on the management panel showed: 1,024 meters underground.
The air was humid, eight degrees warmer than at ground level. The underground heat became perceptible at this depth. His shirt clung to his back. Sweat seeped from his hairline into his collar.
The holographic projection unfolded. The energy field of the "Throat of the Abyss" core pulsated two hundred meters directly below. Slow. Heavy. The frequency stabilized at once every seven seconds. Between each pulsation was a very short pause—the amplitude of the energy field dropped to zero, lasting less than two minutes.
A window of opportunity. A yellow warning popped up on the management panel.
[Construction Estimate: An active supernatural energy field exists in the target area. Source: Core radiation from the Abyss's Throat.]
[Direct construction will trigger an energy conflict. It is recommended to execute during an energy field gap window.]
[Next gap window: 47 minutes later. Duration: Approximately 90 seconds.] Ninety seconds.
Allen crouched on the rock face. His back against the pipe wall. Condensate dripped from above, hitting his shoulders.
Forty-seven minutes.
The countdown numbers on the management panel jumped in the upper right corner of his vision. Each second carried physical weight. He waited in the darkness a thousand meters deep for a window of less than two minutes. If he missed this one, the next window would be in seven hours.
Shadow perception extended downwards along the rock strata. Two hundred meters of solid granite. He couldn't penetrate it. But the core's pulsation transmitted through the rock strata. Vibrations entered his shins from the soles of his feet, traveling along the bones into his spine.
Once every seven seconds.
The first time. Dull. Low-frequency. The amplitude peaked at the third second, then decayed.
The second time. The rhythm remained unchanged. A completely mechanical repetition.
The fourteenth time.
A strange sensation suddenly shot through Allen's spine. Not a pulsation. In the intervals between pulsations, there was an extremely faint signal, not belonging to the normal vibrational pattern. Intermittent. Irregular.
The core of the Abyss's Maw emitted additional vibrations during the intervals.
Not mechanical. It was tentative.
The control panel did not detect this signal. The C-level instruments were not precise enough. But Allen's skeleton detected it—bone conduction in the human body is more sensitive than electronic devices in certain frequency bands.
The core was moving. Moving during the intervals.
It was awake. Or was awakening.
Countdown: 00:03:12.
Allen stood up. His legs were numb after forty-seven minutes of squatting. He stomped his feet twice. Blood flowed back to his calves.
The construction interface unfolded. Three sub-panels appeared simultaneously—Construct, Position, Anchor. A finger hovers above the virtual button.
Countdown: 00:00:30.
The energy field monitoring curve on the management panel begins to decline. Peak decay. Amplitude narrowing.
00:00:10.
00:00:05.
00:00:00.
Curve bottoms out. Reaches zero.
Window opens.
Three fingers fall simultaneously.
Construction confirmed. Position locked. Anchoring initiated.
50,000 BP deducted. Balance jumps from 53,400 to 3,400.
Data flows from fingertips into the rock beneath the feet. The core seed of the F-grade dungeon condenses from the void—a thumb-sized blue crystal pierces through the gravel layer, sinking towards the preset coordinates at a speed of twelve meters per second.
The progress bar jumps in the center of the field of view.
20%.
45%.
67%.
89%.
Eighty-third second.
The progress bar is stuck. 92%. The number isn't moving.
The management panel flashes a red border.
[The Abyss's Throat Core Radiation is Recovering—Gap Window is About to Close—]
[Remaining Window Time: 7 seconds.] The core seed's anchoring process is 8 percentage points short. Energy is lacking. The F-grade dungeon's infrastructure struggles at the edge of the natural core's radiation field; the anchor points cannot engage the resonant nodes in the rock strata.
Six seconds.
Allen's hands are pressed against the ground. The rough particles of rock dig into the skin at the base of his palms.
Shadow Perception. His C-grade perception energy.
The only thing that can serve as a temporary power source at this moment.
Four seconds.
He contracts his Shadow Perception inward from a three-meter radius. Three meters. Two meters. One meter. Zero.
All perception energy is stripped from his body, flowing along his arms into his palms, through the rock strata, and into the still-struggling core seed a thousand meters deep.
The world disappears.
Sight remains. But sight is zero at a depth of a thousand meters underground. There is no light source. The dim light from the management panel illuminated the rock face within half a meter. Beyond that, pure, absolute darkness.
Hearing became piercing. The sound of water droplets hitting the rock was amplified threefold. The low-frequency roar of water flowing through the pipes surged from all directions.
The progress bar jumped.
95%. 97%. 99%.
The last second.
100%.
[Fifth Dungeon – "Maw Echo," Rank F – Online.]
[Resonance link established with Natural Dungeon Core #0312 "Throat of the Abyss."] Allen's arms slid down the rock face. His fingers touched his knees in the darkness. Tiny pebbles were embedded in the heels of his palms.
Warm liquid welled up in his nostrils. The smell of rust. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then onto his lips. The color was invisible in the darkness, but the smell was unmistakable.
A yellow warning popped up on the management panel.
[Perception system temporarily overloaded. Recovery time: approximately 6 hours. Current effective range of shadow perception: 5 meters.] Five meters.
A vertical distance of one kilometer. Two kilometers of abandoned tunnels and pipes. Fingers gripping the rusty cast iron steps. The distance between each step is twenty-three centimeters. Counting the route—720 steps to the first transfer platform. 380 steps to the second.
First step. Shoes slipping. Right hand gripping the edge of the step. Knuckles hitting the sharp corner of the cast iron. Pain.
Fortieth step. Thigh muscles begin to ache. Three days of continuous operation culminating in this moment of billing. Washington bus. Cleaner's device. Watchers unleashed. Hawke's corridor. Every expenditure is written in the micro-tears of muscle fibers.
Two hundred and tenth step. Leg cramp. Allen stops halfway up the steps. Back against the pipe wall. Condensate seeps from the rivet gaps in the pipe wall, soaking the left shoulder of his shirt.
Five-meter perception radius. If a cleaner were crouching on the 211th step—he couldn't even hear the other's breathing.
He couldn't stop.
He kept climbing.
The 500th step. His knees protested. Not pain—it was a sticky, heavy feeling, each bend requiring an extra pull on the tendons above his patella.
The 720th step. The first transfer platform. Allen collapsed onto the concrete floor. His head hit the ground. A pipe above the ceiling was leaking. Water dripped half a meter to his right. He counted seventeen drops. Then he got up.
The second section. The 380th step.
The canvas soles of his shoes were already frayed from the rusted cast iron. The new shoes, worn for less than three hours, had already had half the tread worn away.
The last step.
Allen's right hand pushed open the metal cover marked "New York City Water Authority - Authorized Personnel" from the ground. The hinges of the cover screeched sharply. The night wind rushed in. The stench of rotting garbage. Car exhaust. Someone's arguing in the distance.
He climbed out.
An alleyway. Brick walls. The rusty iron frame of the fire escape cast crisscrossing shadows overhead.
Allen leaned against the wall. Gasping for breath. His knees were trembling. Not from fear. Just the physiological tremor of depleted ATP in his muscles.
The management panel hovered silently in his field of vision. Five underground cities. All online. Four resonant links running stably.
He took the SIM card from his watch pocket. Inserted it back into his phone. Turned it on.
A flood of text messages.
Robert. Two.
First: "Analysis of the global natural underground city anomaly signal complete. Coordinates of twenty-seven eruption nodes confirmed. Thirteen of them exhibit accelerator energy signatures."
Second: "The remaining fourteen—the anomaly signals originate from the cores themselves. They are awakening on their own. No accelerators. Allen, the Cleansers only targeted thirteen cores. The other fourteen are awakening naturally. The collective awakening of the underground city cores is an inevitable natural trend. The Cleansers are simply going with the flow." The finger paused on the screen.
Thirteen were man-made. Fourteen were natural. A total of twenty-seven at the critical point of synchronization.
The Cleansers are not the ones who create the crisis. They are the ones who saw the impending crisis and decided, "Since it's going to explode anyway, I might as well control how it happens."
Hawk stood in the middle of this chain of logic.
Lina's three reports: Reporting on the decoy operation. Fifteen minutes on the Brooklyn Bridge. Confirmed two points of light followed. Class B. Black uniform. The tracker lost target after detaching from the maintenance passage in the middle of the bridge. Decoy successful.
Jason's one report: Brooklyn Ruins operating normally. VictorStone's second elite team arrived. BP output continued to climb.
Last message.
Unknown number.
Not a threatening post in the style of the Cleansers. Not Hawk. Not any known contact.
The sender's signature consisted of only one symbol.
"Eye" Allen's thumb hovered above the screen. In the lower left corner of the management panel, the Abyss's dark red pupils contracted sharply in the same instant. It recognized the presence of its own kind.
Text unfolded.
"Architect. The moment you injected sensory energy a thousand meters deep, I sensed you. The distance between you and me is now only two hundred meters of rock." The brick wall of the alleyway left a vertical mark on Allen's back.
"Next time, we can talk directly." Signature.
"—Core of the Abyss's Throat"
This wasn't AbyssWalker's relay. Not secondhand information transmitted through the Resonance Network.
Allen's palm slid down two centimeters along the rough surface of the brick wall. The white light from the phone shone on his face. The world without the glasses was blurry, but every word on the screen was in focus.
The sixth Natural Core. It woke up on its own. Without any intermediaries. It found him directly.
In the lower left corner of the management panel, the abyss's dark red pupils and the word "eye" on the phone screen overlapped in his vision, forming a vertical line.
In the distance, the sirens of fire trucks pierced the night sky of Seventh Avenue in Manhattan. Allen's thumb rested on the reply button. The cursor blinked in the blank input box.