“Sir, do you have a pass?” The question rang like a cold coin tapping stone.

Lingchen Yao blinked, like a lantern doused by rain, unsure what “pass” meant. The Eye Orb hovered silent, a shut pupil under clouded sky.

“So you don’t, huh… No pass, no entry. No pass means intruder, and intruders get dealt with.” Their voices scraped like knives on bone.

The two brutes rubbed their fists, like millstones warming up. Their muscles swelled like dough rising, and blue veins crawled like vines, with Blood surging beneath.

“Hey, what now? Think fast. I’m low on Mana!” The Eye Orb’s tone fluttered like a trapped sparrow. “If I transform here, we can’t bury it later.”

“I’m trying… First time I came, no one asked for a pass.” Lingchen’s breath skittered like dry leaves chased by wind.

Bootsteps fell like drums as the two pressed in. Lingchen was herded like a deer toward a cliff of wall; pain loomed like a storm even if death didn’t.

“This! No idea if it works, but it’s what I always used.” The Eye Orb flashed like a fish-scale in moonlight.

A bright badge glittered in its grip, a silver hook emblem catching light like frost. Lingchen shoved it under their noses, and their brows knotted like twisted rope, yet their bulging muscles slackened like tides receding.

Looked like… no beating today. His sigh slipped out like steam from a kettle.

“Please wait. The badge is real, but we need to ask the Mayor.” One brute stepped into the elevator, a metal throat swallowing him whole. The other stared without blinking, like a wolf watching a lamb breathe.

“All good, all good.” Lingchen lifted a cookie, crumbs falling like snow to calm a churning gut.

Halfway through, the elevator hummed back, and the brute returned, handing the badge back like a judge returning a seal.

“Welcome, guest of Aklatia. But to confirm your identity, you’ll meet our Mayor. It’s a troubled season. Mwah~” His tone turned honeyed, like syrup poured over gravel.

The sudden simper raised gooseflesh on Lingchen’s arms like winter thorns. A mountain of muscle puckering words like that—he nearly gagged. Ew.

They took the lift down into a passage black as a dried well. The corridor’s ceiling hung under one-seventy like a low cloud; Lingchen crouched forward, fearing new lumps would sprout like mushrooms.

He glanced at the three-meter brute and wondered how a tree would fit a burrow. The brute plucked something free with a soft snap; his veins shrank like punctured hoses, skin wrinkling like a deflating balloon.

In a blink he withered into a creased figure, his height settling near Lingchen’s like a folding reed.

Holy— Lingchen froze, his mind popping like a blown fuse. Was this the same brute?

“This model rolled out two years ago,” the Eye Orb murmured, voice thin as thread. “They strip all muscle, leave skeleton and organs, then pack a frame in by special means. The skin’s propped by Abyss Monsters… not my craft, so don’t ask me how.”

“Oh, and the outer skin’s replaceable, to match a client’s taste.” Its chuckle rustled like paper in a draft.

The brute entered a side room like a snake gliding into a shed, and a moment later a voluptuous beauty stepped out, like a lotus rising from black water.

She wore a short black skirt, curves drawn like a brushstroke, a heavy chest like twin hills, and legs long and straight as spears, capped with black high boots like lacquered scabbards.

She sauntered forward with a faint fox-smile, a petal of charm curled at the edge. “What’s wrong, not moving? The boss is getting impatient~” Her voice lilted like a silk ribbon in wind.

Lingchen felt his worldview creak like old timber. Still within tolerance, he told himself, because with his bracelet, his own transform wasn’t far from this mirror-trick.

Then the mirror shattered and glass rained on his thoughts.

As they walked, the beauty tossed a wink like a tossed coin at a passing client. He knew her; he rushed in and scooped her up, one hand clamping her peak like a greedy claw.

“Bad boy~ I’m busy. Later, alright~” Her finger traced his chest like a cat’s paw, shy and teasing as morning mist.

“Busy with what?” His smile split wider than lips, like a leaf torn along the vein. Lingchen’s sanity bar tanked like a ship speared by ice, and the man’s aura rose like heat—dangerous as the Magic Maiden he’d faced tonight.

“The boss is seeing this kid~ Go wait at the usual spot~” Her whisper curled like incense smoke.

The man set her down and bolted into a side room like a firework misfired.

“Sir, you can request this service too. Trust me, I—will—make—you—spend—” She bit her finger, a ripe fruit begging for teeth.

Lingchen’s heartbeat kept steady like a drum in snow; he felt nothing but unease. Yeah, she was gorgeous; if he didn’t know the trick, he’d have charged like a bull.

“Stop, stop!” He raised a hand, needing a few heartbeats—no, a billion—of time to adjust. His teen worldview was trampled like a rice field under hoof, left muddy and torn.

RIP [Worldview]… m(-__-)m

“I think you could seduce a few high-rankers,” the Eye Orb snickered, a fox under moonlight. “They might spill what they know~”

“No way. Absolutely not.” Lingchen’s face was carved stone. “My orientation’s fine. Send me to charm men, and you might as well kill me.”

The woman led him on cat-steps to the deepest door, like a gate at the end of a cave. Before he could knock, a deep hoarse voice rolled out like thunder in a gourd.

“Come in.”

Lingchen followed her inside. As the door shut with a hush like silk drawn through a ring, something invisible clamped his Mana like frost sealing a stream. He wrestled and got nothing, and the Old Woman’s warning flared like a lantern.

Obsidian Stone.

“First time here, isn’t it?” The voice wore a smile like a shadow wearing velvet.

Opposite Lingchen sat a man in a black suit, black half-tall silk top hat, and black leather gloves, each piece a night feather. At his waist, a retro revolver slept like an old hound, and a lollipop perched in his mouth like a bright berry.

A lollipop? The scent drifted sweet, strawberry-bright like dawn over fields.

“Yeah. First time,” Lingchen said, each word a pebble dropped into a still pond.

“You smell of the Abyss and Mana, with the Abyss stronger than Mana,” the man said, eyes hawk-sharp, pinning him like a mouse on open sand. “You from that side? No… their Mana’s never that strong. If you’re a modified human, how haven’t Mana and Abyss—opposite currents—torn you apart? Fascinating.”

“Aklatia’s final experiment?” His gaze sliced like a wing in a gale.

Under that eagle-glare, pressure piled on Lingchen like snow on a fragile branch. He became a mouse begging the hawk to look away.

“Relax. Since you’re from Aklatia, I’ll ask a few questions. Give me answers I like.” His smile clicked like glass on teeth. “If you don’t… heh, I’ll hang your head in the middle of the market.”

Lingchen wanted to curse, the urge like smoke clawing his throat. This wasn’t questioning; this was fishing with a knife.

The Market Mayor flicked his hand, and the woman drifted off like a petal on a stream.

Lingchen steadied himself like a reed in wind. Without power, the unspoken weight shoved at him like a tide, and he swayed on his knees.

“First question. Hey now, no need to be nervous.” His invisible pressure leaked like cold fog, and sweat poured down Lingchen’s brow like rain off eaves. Even his Abyssal Aura was scoured thin like ink washed by a wave.

Not nervous, my ass, Lingchen thought, biting the words like grit. Pull your storm back if you want calm.

“Is the Doctor still alive?”

Lingchen swallowed, throat a dry reed. He was about to say no when the Eye Orb cut in, voice a needle through cloth.

“Say ‘alive.’ Trust me this time.”

“Alive,” Lingchen said, tossing the pebble and waiting for ripples.

“Oh?” Surprise twitched on the Mayor’s face like a ripple on oil—too smooth, too staged. Lingchen saw through it at a glance.

“Then second question.” He paused, fingers interlacing like the ribs of a cage, and his presence surged like a wave rearing on black water. If he was a storm swell, Lingchen was a cracked boat grinding up the crest.

“Did Aklatia really fall? Or say it this way—did Aklatia really fall?”

“No.” The word left him like a nail hammered into wood. The Eye Orb fed him lines; the pressure ate his breath.

“Third question.” The Obsidian Stone room trembled like a bell, and fine cracks climbed the glassware like frost. Lingchen’s mind went white, a page ripped clean.

“What was Aklatia’s final research?”

“…It should be…” He buckled to his knees, drawing air like a fish stranded on rock. The mountain pressed; his tongue begged to spill truth like an unstoppered jar.

Then his Abyssal Aura welled up, thick and dark like ink poured into water. The pressure thinned by a shade, a cloud torn by wind.

“No com… ment!!!” He roared the words like stones flung at a wolf, and his head swam like reeds in flood.

He’d transformed to face the girl from Cantata Two not long ago. Now his mind burned dry wood to keep warm. All he wanted was a bed, cool and wide as a sky.

“Congratulations. You passed.” The Mayor’s tone warmed like coals under ash. “Not bad… I’m starting to like your odds. With you and the Doctor, Aklatia might rise again. You can move freely now. Here—this will ease your fatigue.”

“Consider it a gift for Aklatia’s rebirth.”

Lingchen took the necklace. The blue crystal breathed cool through his skin like spring water in the palm.

“A Magic Tool? You’re generous,” the Eye Orb muttered, a smile flicking like a fin.

“A small Magic Tool,” the Mayor said, casual as rain on slate. “Who knows, we might be colleagues someday.”

Lingchen clenched the necklace, the tiredness ebbing like tide. He turned to go, and behind him the Mayor bit down, candy crunching like ice.

“Kid, lies are lovely things,” he said, words sweet and sharp as sugared glass. “They give you honey, and they set your hair on fire.”