Five Demonborn fell before Lingyue in under three moves—wiped out in seconds.

Watching this blur of violence, Sherlock felt her earlier desperate battles, her two narrow escapes, reduced to farce.

Under Sherlock’s healing, Yan Lingxuan’s wounds had mostly closed. He was back on his feet. Yet why did Sherlock’s expression darken?

While Yan Lingxuan recovered, Lingyue rounded up the remaining Tutankhamun Society stragglers nearby. Combined with the ten Sherlock had trapped earlier in Magic Sealing Arrays, nineteen now knelt before them.

The Tutankhamun Society had numbered 102. Fifty-five were already captured. Six had died as Demonborn. One perished in infighting. The remaining twenty-one were under Alice’s satellite surveillance. With the Valkyries mobilized, their capture was imminent.

But the real problem wasn’t catching them—it was what came next. All had been injected with BU3 reagent. Demonic Transformation was inevitable.

They stood atop a triangular skyscraper. Below, an overgrown, abandoned city hummed with insects. The nineteen captives sat isolated within individual Magic Sealing Arrays, faces slack with despair or twisted with rage. Some already showed early signs of Demonic Transformation—their emotions volatile, teetering on the edge.

Monty, sensing his end near, felt an eerie calm settle over him. A self-mocking smile touched his lips. This unnatural stillness frightened even himself. Regret flooded in—memories of his countless wrongs. He hated this useless feeling.

“Will we turn into Demonborn?” Monty asked.

Yan Lingxuan answered flatly: “The ‘Mage Reagent’ you used—BU3—is a serum developed by the U.S. Fifth Magic Research Institute using Mage genes. In all one hundred forty-six recorded human trials, Demonic Transformation occurred without exception.”

The death sentence sparked chaos among the captives—some thrashed against their bonds, others slumped in resignation.

Sherlock knew the horror of Demonic Transformation all too well. Though it felt cruel, she said: “Anyone injected will transform. There’s only one thing left to do.”

She moved to end it herself. But a hand pressed down on her wrist.

“There’s more than one option,” Yan Lingxuan said lightly.

Sherlock bristled. Did he grasp the stakes at all?

“You think they can be saved?”

“Won’t know unless we try.”

“You’re naive!”

Trying took time. Time they didn’t have.

Even under the princess’s furious glare, Yan Lingxuan kept smiling. He glanced at Lingyue, then back at Sherlock.

“If you disagree, we’re three people—odd number. Majority rules, right?”

Exactly. Majority rule was why human society functioned.

“I support my brother.”

No surprise there. Sherlock had expected Lingyue’s answer. She was outnumbered.

A “good sister” supports her brother. Yan Lingxuan tearfully embraced Lingyue—only to take a reflexive punch to the gut that nearly made him vomit bile. *Sister’s iron headbutt. Brother remembers.*

Ignoring the siblings’ affectionate violence, Sherlock’s face tightened.

“Do you even have a plan? Hesitation could doom us all.”

Her gaze turned sharp, but Yan Lingxuan didn’t flinch. He turned to Monty’s group and crouched.

“Sherlock, remember our mission from the dean? We’re not executioners. We’re counselors retrieving truant students.”

Sherlock’s furrowed brow eased slightly.

“Scowling solves nothing—and gives wrinkles. A famous beauty like you must protect her image. Act like the pretty girl you are.”

His earnest lecture made Sherlock want to kick him across the roof. *If Lingyue weren’t here…*

“Mind your own business!”

*Pretty girl.* Others had called her that before. But hearing it from Yan Lingxuan sent warmth flooding her cheeks. *Is this… happiness?*

Catching Lingyue’s knowing smirk from the corner of her eye, Sherlock instantly schooled her features. *(Lovely weather today.)*

Unaware of the silent drama behind him, Yan Lingxuan focused on Monty.

“Monty Pagett. As your temporary counselor, I ask: Do you want to die?”

Monty’s mocking grin faltered under Yan Lingxuan’s dead-eyed stare.

“Don’t mistake me. I’m no saint. Strangers’ lives mean nothing to me—especially scum who destroy others’ happiness for profit. Saving you brings me no benefit. Only trouble. If you say ‘don’t bother,’ I’d be relieved. I won’t waste effort on those without will to live. I’d only try because… *maybe it’s possible*. And if I don’t, I might regret it later.”

Monty’s anger faded to stillness, then crumpled into the look of a beaten dog.

“Just answer. Live or die?”

“I want to live… I don’t want to die…”

Yan Lingxuan’s slight grimace seemed to say: *Dying would be simpler.* Yet even in that humiliation, Monty clung to life.

“How will you save them?” Sherlock asked. She had no reason to stop him now. If the outcome could change, she’d welcome it.

“Simple. They became Mages by injecting Mage genes via BU3. Remove the corrupted genes.”

“The human body has fifty trillion cells. Genes hide within them—it’s like finding a needle in an ocean. You expect to finish this quickly? For nineteen people?”

Sherlock was right. The task was immense—days, even months of work. Time they didn’t have.

Yan Lingxuan had already briefed Yuan Ye Misaki on the situation. Let the dean handle the mess. The Valkyries would arrive within ten minutes to take custody. After that, Monty’s fate was Atlantis’s problem. The government wouldn’t waste resources saving criminals. Death awaited them.

“I’m not naive enough to save all nineteen. One precedent makes the rest possible. And it’s not fifty trillion cells—barely twenty billion…”

*Twenty billion?* Sherlock frowned. An adult human had trillions of cells.

“…if we discard everything except the brain.”

Monty swallowed hard under Yan Lingxuan’s chilling gaze. A chill ran down his spine.

“Someone must be the test subject. Don’t worry—if it works, I’ll rebuild the rest of your body…”

*My body isn’t a toy. Not something to reassemble.* Monty wanted to scream it.

“Lingyue, lend me your strength?”

“Of course.”

“And the princess?”

“Hmph. Call me Sherlock. I’ll help where I can.”

Modern medicine could sustain life with an intact brain. Prosthetics mimicking human limbs were readily available.

***

A low, white rectangular building stood under a sign bearing a triangle and frangipani blossom: the Hilo Police Station.

“No action for us?” A twenty-five-year-old cop with spiky hair grumbled, boots propped on a cluttered desk.

“We’re support, not main force. Plenty of cleanup later. Fighting isn’t our primary duty anyway,” replied a thirty-ish, round-faced man sipping roasted tea from a ceramic mug.

“Pathetic! We’re police—the backbone of Atlantis’s security! Hiding here while villains run loose? Disgraceful!” The spiky-haired youth slammed his fist down.

The round-faced man just smiled gently.

“Pfft. He just wants a fight. Hot-headed fool. If he’s so eager, why not become an A-Class Mage and join the Valkyries? They’d welcome him. Then he could stop whining here.”

A Black woman in a crop top and shorts strode over from the records room. Only the six-pointed star badge on her chest marked her as police.

“Easy for you to say, Marjane. Don’t you feel the same?”

“Watch your tone, rookie! I’m your senior here.”

The round-faced man sipped his tea, wisely silent as the bickering resumed.

***

North Town Street—a commercial strip near the academy dorms.

Tonight, it lay unnaturally still. At only 7:30 PM, sidewalks stood empty. Shops were shuttered and dark. No cars moved. Every traffic light glowed red. An eerie silence hung thick in the air.

At the street’s end, Evergreen Restaurant was one of the few open establishments. Its windows spilled warm light onto the deserted pavement.

Soft footsteps broke the quiet. A boy in school uniform walked down the center of the road, head down, ignoring the strangeness around him. He stopped before the restaurant’s glass door.

“…”

The door slid open with a whisper. Cold air rushed out.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, rubbing his short-cropped hair. His apology died as twenty pairs of icy eyes locked onto him.

The tension snapped when a man with a goatee stepped forward.

Lerian Bochet, 27. Formerly of Lebanon. Light gray skin, 180cm tall, muscles sharp beneath a purple shirt and black slacks. A striped tie. The goatee gave him a mature air rather than aged him.

“Ah, Harold. Didn’t I message your Wearable Device? You’re off duty starting today. Your final paycheck’s already transferred.”

That's right—the boy was Harold. He'd been working part-time at Evergreen Restaurant for half a month. Last weekend, Yan Lingxuan and Bai Lingyue had also run into him here while dining.

Harold scratched his short-cropped hair again, head lowered. "I know," he said in a bitter tone. "But I really need this job. I need money. I don't know what I've done wrong. Please tell me, Mr. Lerian."

Lerian frowned. He knew Harold's situation—just him and his sister. Both attended Valhalla Academy, so meals were covered. But everything else required their own effort. Needing money wasn't surprising.

"It's not your fault," Lerian said. "I'm closing Evergreen. If you have nothing else, leave now. We're busy."

Sensing the impatience behind him, Lerian wanted to dismiss Harold fast. His tone was sharp—a smart person would get the hint.

"But..." Harold stood his ground, muttering. His lowered eyes secretly scanned the people behind Lerian.

Twenty-six of them. Average age around 25. The youngest was 16, like Harold; the oldest near 40. They clustered on the restaurant's left side. Since Harold entered, their gazes never left him. Their faces were grim.

"Get him out of here, Lerian." The speaker was a bald Asian man in a Hawaiian shirt, seated in the center. His eyes were the coldest—like a killer's. Harold glanced at him but dared not meet his stare.

At the bald man's words, Lerian shoved Harold toward the door. "Go. We're busy."

"But I'm busy too..." At the doorway, Harold's voice turned icy. Lerian sensed danger too late. A blade pierced his chest—flesh and bone tearing—straight through his heart.

The others saw Lerian freeze, puzzled. Then a spherical object rolled from his feet.

A blinding flash and ear-splitting bang stole sight and sound. Their heads roared with deafening noise.

Pushing Lerian's corpse aside, Harold charged in, combat knife dripping blood, eyes closed. "As a Valkyries Moonshadow Unit member, I eliminate all who threaten Atlantis's order." The knife's surface shimmered with transparent energy. Fresh blood vanished. The blade warped—visual distortion from ultra-high frequency oscillation.

Addicted to magic, yet negligent against simple attacks. How laughable.

"Cleanup mission begins."

Four figures abruptly appeared on the empty street. All wore metal helmets and black tight combat suits.