“I’ll take you out.”

That was the last voice Night Frost heard before fainting. Distant as a winter bell, familiar as a long-lost echo. Her resistance softened.

Three enemies ringed her like closing walls. If she kept fighting, she’d fall first. The end was set like frost on a blade. The voice was a thin dawn.

They wanted the Key. Night Frost knew the Key, and the Key’s nest. To stop a snatch, she hid it in a safe cranny, a shadowed corner no one checks.

She squinted open. Hands dragged her downward like sinking snow, then tossed her into a small Obsidian Stone room. No Mana, no Abyssal Aura. A dry well.

They took the Spatial Box from her waist. It held a fake Key, and her birthday was the password. No one knew that—no one but that voice.

On the way, she saw many such Obsidian Stone rooms. The Modification Center’s signs said below the ninth floor lay private zones for managers and the boss.

They’d met managers before, so this level should be the boss’s tier. So many rooms like sealed coffins. The boss wasn’t clean; secrets pooled like ink.

Still, before secrets, escape. The voice promised to lead her out, but help didn’t mean surrender. She would test her own teeth against the bars.

The exit was sealed with an Obsidian Stone block. Outside, a device lifted the block like a drawbridge, allowing entry and exit when commanded.

It was just a slab with connecting joints. Joints are weaker than stone. Break the joints, and the slab becomes a fallen gate she could push aside.

Her idea glowed bright; reality answered cold. The joints were hard as iron roots. Almost as tough as the Obsidian Stone they held.

She roasted them with flame, again and again. They had fire-resistant fill, a bitter shield. She could melt them, but time and Mana bled like sand.

Was she meant to wait here for death, like frost in a sealed urn?

“Here are the patents and IP for part of our gene modification tech. This is the contract. Please review.”

The masked man read the crisp black-on-white. No hidden hooks. He signed, ink settling like night.

Ms Feng copied and filed it. Then she reached into space and slid out a suitcase, pushing it across like a quiet gift.

He opened it. Ten vials sat neat and precise. Thick glass walls. A sour tang seeped through, like vinegar on steel.

“This the latest gene serum? Smells the same, looks the same.”

Ms Feng’s smile held steady snow. “It fits your genes best. We tweaked ratios for stability. It’ll hold your stitched Monsters’ limbs like cured bark.”

“Long-term use lets your skin and a Monster’s skin fully fuse. Not a seam, but you—grown together.”

She paused. “Made by the most brilliant genetic engineer on record. If it feels wrong, come to Rouge Rabbit to complain. We’ll give you a good answer.”

The masked man exhaled. He ordered the vials stored in a cabinet on the thirteenth floor, and told the Fish Monster Manager to guard them tight.

Their talk didn’t end. Ms Feng’s curiosity rippled. She’d heard him say, “The Key is the door sealing light and dark, the door that restores the origin.”

“What exactly is the Key?” she asked.

Night Frost wore a Key, a relic from her parents. Inset with compressed Magic Stone. Mana like a storm caged in glass. It had other teeth.

The masked man didn’t hide. Among the upper floors, it wasn’t secret. With Ms Feng’s network and tech, what could she not get? A single message buys favor at Rouge Rabbit.

“There are Keys in this world,” he said. “They look and work like keys, so we call them Keys.”

“We don’t know the full count. Some districts were built for Keys. That’s the rumor. District Twenty One is one such place.”

Heat flashed in his eyes, longing burning into zeal. He smothered it like a spark under ash. He’d shown too much before a guest.

Ms Feng only smiled, snow-light and unreadable.

“Keys imply doors and locks. Keys open and lock. What’s beyond is my pursuit. As you echoed, the door seals great power.”

“Open it, gain it. That power reshapes time, returns all to the starting point.”

Return to origin… It smelled of myth. Illusory Glass, with its hints of time, still couldn’t roll the world back. To rewind years, you’d need a god’s hand.

And if it’s a god, why hide behind a small door like a bird in a cage? The claim contradicted itself. Ms Feng kept her doubts like folded paper.

More puzzling was his source. He believed like stone. Night Frost had asked before; his answer was eavesdropping on two Seekers.

Ms Feng almost laughed. She wouldn’t trust a Seeker’s map. They dig pits with honey on the rim, waiting for fools with thin hope to jump. He was one such fool.

The Divine Cult Modification Center began as an Order Keeper and Seeker investment. The masked man was appointed by both. Why him—skill, or a clever head?

Ms Feng wouldn’t say.

“Since the Key’s that important, how will you pry clues from that Magic Maiden?” she asked softly. “She’s not one to open easily.”

The masked man waved. Lu’an stepped from shadow and set a huge slab on the table like a tombstone.

“This is a Spirit Formation we developed with the Seekers,” he said. “With it, the target will spill everything, like water over rock.”

Ms Feng glanced at the slab’s face. Her soul felt tugged like a thread. A strange craft. She worried for Night Frost, a cloud over her brow.

But they had a deal. They wouldn’t harm Night Frost. They wanted only the Key, a single star in a black sky.

They went to the fifteenth floor, the masked man’s living space. Around a hundred square meters. Half carved into Obsidian Stone rooms, empty as bare altars.

Lu’an carried the slab to Night Frost’s Obsidian Stone door. Its joints were charred, faintly softened like wax at dusk. Her grit drew silent respect.

The door opened slow as a stone flower. Night Frost sat weak in a corner, a shadow folding in. Mana nearly spent, wounds deepening like cracks in ice.

Underground or not, fresh air and a wash of Mana touched her face. She drank it greedily, a parched leaf in rain. It filled slow.

They brought in the massive slab. Night Frost glanced at its skin. Her mind tugged toward the Array Pattern like a moth to flame.

She’d seen that weave before. It echoed the one in her father’s journal, a twin melody. Likely crafted by the same hand.

She understood their aim. Use a Spirit Formation to force truth. But Night Frost hosted the Black Dragon’s spirit. Spirit Formations were nets she didn’t fear.

Her mouth tipped upward. She feigned a struggle, then let her gaze dim like fading coals. Seeing her “caught,” the masked man spoke.

“Where is the Key?”

In her spirit world, Night Frost guided her Spirit Threads, looping them around the Black Dragon again, a belt around a storm. She slipped past clean.

“I don’t know. If you mean the house key, it’s in my Spatial Box.”

He pressed for more: where are the Old Women, did she know an Old Woman held a Key? Night Frost answered with winter fog—nothing, nothing, nothing.

The masked man frowned, thinking the slab was broken. They turned it on the Fish Monster Manager, who spilled answers like a river. The slab worked.

Maybe Night Frost truly knew nothing. Or maybe snow hid prints.

Ms Feng had noticed Night Frost’s smile before the test. She felt sure Night Frost would emerge whole. She turned to the masked man.

“Interrogation’s over. I’m taking her.”