On the twelfth level, the whole room stood with identical glass wombs. Inside floated humans, Monsters, and nameless things, their flesh carved open, tubes drinking their Blood like metal leeches.

Familiarity pricked Night Frost first, then memory followed. She had seen such a scene before—an organization that cultivated and birthed life in vats. The recollection felt far away, blurred as mist.

She placed her palm on one vessel. A bug-like Monster inside opened slime-glazed eyes and stared, curious at a human it had never seen.

She moved on. Clumps of tissue grew with eerie order, guided by human intent, knitting toward a human shape. She recalled those “artificial skins” in the black market; they were probably made the same way.

Not far away, files lay piled. Night Frost stepped closer, saw a folder stamped “Top Secret,” and lifted it. A low mechanical male voice rolled up behind her.

I advise you not to open that. Otherwise, the Modification Center will be your mortal enemy.

Night Frost spun. Flame curled from her palm. Behind her stood a towering man, almost entirely mechanized. He raised a hand, and the bare gun barrel winked cold.

He didn’t open fire. He simply held out his hand—calm down, no need for a kill-or-be-killed scene.

This is a test site of the Modification Center. It’s not exactly secret; plenty of companies know. Still, it’s our property. I’ll let you go to thirteen to find the exit. Neither of us moves. Deal?

Amusement came first, then contempt. Live and let live? Night Frost had already killed one of theirs. If he knew, would he still play nice? They were enemies now.

She glanced at his feet. Beneath them had to be a lift to thirteen. Otherwise his heavy frame would thunder with steps. He’d come up from below; she’d seen him by the lake. The claim of an exit underfoot felt more solid.

I know what you’re thinking. I can analyze your hostility… You killed her, didn’t you?

His mechanical tone carried no bluff, only frost. He stated what Night Frost had done.

You knew?

Confusion pressed first, then the thought: as allies, he should avenge or at least “teach” her a lesson. Yet he refused the usual script.

He flicked open a broad hand, reached over her head without effort, and took the files. He straightened them and pinched them in one grip.

See the nearby vats? If you look close, it’s obvious—this is a plant for human products. Organs. Inflatable skin. Even the most sensual, realistic masturbation sleeve. All just by-products of experiment.

He paused, made sure the files were intact, then turned his head to speak of the girl.

She doesn’t have a true name. She’s a finished product from here—and a failed one. If she has a name, it’s H132704. The only one who walked out of here and reached Cantata Two as a Magic Maiden.

Night Frost blinked, then scanned the room. Organs, skin, bones—threads of evidence braided into one truth: artificial humans.

She hadn’t expected the Modification Center to run a project this vast. The girl she fought had been man-made.

Not entirely, he added. At least half of her was human. But coming here cost her her name and past. She gained power. There was a price, naturally.

She was born mad, drifted free of time. Her life was brief and easy to wither, like an epiphyllum blooming for a few moments at night.

She grew feverish for beauty and art. She hunted beauty. Then, in her naïve craze, she began to kill. Driving the Blade into hearts became her pleasure.

I admit it—the higher-ups at the Modification Center aren’t sane. One loves lives that vanish, drives the Blade into hearts yet spills not a drop. One eats people, always raw, with a hideous face. One tinkers with research, never speaks; a smile counts as proof of life.

He seemed full of complaints. Night Frost tilted her head and listened, while quietly knitting back her Mana and strength.

H132704 was an accidental spark in the experiment—unrepeatable. Her span was short. Even if you hadn’t killed her, she’d likely die within months.

I had some feeling for her, the camaraderie of colleagues. Blood fades fast. So I chose steel. Soon my body will have no flesh, only undying machinery. Flesh-and-blood people are just guests in my timeline.

Besides, I didn’t order her to block you on eleven. She ran up on her own. This level had a dissection room set for her—dabble in art, watch the vats, report issues. Pity. That seat’s wasted. We’ll have to reassign.

Night Frost studied him. Truth stood plain: no intact flesh remained. Metal sheathed him. If anything stayed un-swapped, it was likely the brain.

A furnace had replaced his heart. Metal limbs had replaced his arms and legs. Alloy had replaced his bones. He had forged himself into this.

Oh right—could you return her Blade? Its crafting value rivals “Miracle.” It can shear Obsidian Stone—with the right technique.

Night Frost thought a moment and handed it over. He accepted it. Seeing her oblige, he found no reason to strike. He turned and headed for level eleven.

A few steps in, he left a line behind. His low mechanical voice hummed through a space not as big as it looked.

I’ll be on fourteen. I hope you don’t go there, or I won’t hold back. The entrance to thirteen is under your feet. The exit should be the waterway. Don’t touch the lowest pool.

He had said too much. Night Frost needed a beat to catch it all. He’d handed her intel on thirteen, filling in her map outright. Was that okay? Well, it wasn’t a loss. After a quick look at the route, she stepped onto the lift platform.

Last of last, she glanced at an infant in a vat. A strange familiarity tugged, unbidden.

The platform dropped slow and reached level thirteen. Compared to the layers above, thirteen felt small.

Only a third was solid footing. The rest was filled with murky, unknown liquid—no telling its purpose, only its stench of secrecy.

They said thirteen had a waterway. Night Frost felt caution first, then refusal. Even if there was one, this murk was terrifying; who knew what was mixed in?

She searched a while and found no other exit. Instead, a straight ladder led down. Beneath it lay a clearer water surface, clearer at least than the sludge.

No steel-bodied man could go this way; the ladder wouldn’t hold him. The space below was open—no lift. There had to be a hidden door to fourteen. But since he’d said there was a water exit, Night Frost would check it.

She wanted nothing to do with the sludge; its use was unknown, its filth obvious. She’d rather test the clear pool; it looked filtered from the murk.

Under the clear pool seemed another filter, making three pools in all. She hesitated. Remembering his warning, the last pool likely held stored water. She had no taste for making people drink her bath. She dropped the idea of the final pool.

She lingered at the rim, then set her resolve. Breath steady first, action next. She planned to dive in one breath to the deepest point.

Just as she’d guessed, the pool connected to a giant pipe. She could leave through it.

Then the water turned cloudy, heavy, foul. It matched the topmost layer in stench and drag. Slime pulled at her limbs, and Night Frost shut her eyes.

The murk gathered toward her like a tide. It compressed into a sphere. The liquid inside filtered out, leaving a gelatinous mass.

Magic Maiden captured~

So close to the exit. Good thing my technique was sharper.

A fish-shaped Monster slid down from the top pool. As Night Frost dove, he opened a valve, drained the lower water, and poured in the upper sludge, then killed every filter.

Night Frost had seen this fish before—the manager on level one, the one who oversaw Pharma District One.

When the second pool siphoned dry, the Monster walked to the mouth where lake water poured in. He pulled a lever and sealed it shut.

Then he hunted for a good, solid container for the gel sphere. He couldn’t let Night Frost slip free. Otherwise, his loss would be massive.