A brilliant streak of light slashed across the sky—a colossal lightning bolt. Before it could strike the ground, most of its force was neutralized by ice. Only stray branches lashed nearby rooftops, sending thick plumes of smoke curling upward from several spots.

Lu Feng stood by the windowsill, startled by the flash. Watching the torrential downpour, he felt a flicker of relief—he’d gathered the laundry just in time and stayed dry.

Then the lights died. Streetlamps flickered out. The entire town plunged into silent darkness—a stark testament to the lightning’s raw power.

Car horns blared incessantly outside. Inside the pitch-black room, Lu Feng fumbled briefly before pulling a flashlight from the cabinet.

Yuzi had been curled on the bed, munching potato chips while watching TV. When the lightning flashed, she merely tilted her head toward the window. Then—darkness. The screen went black.

“Scared?” Lu Feng walked over and ruffled her hair.

“Lu Feng was the one scared,” Yuzi replied flatly, still crunching chips, face utterly unreadable.

Seeing her unshaken calm, Lu Feng relaxed and headed downstairs. The tea water hadn’t even finished boiling.

He reached the ground floor just as Su Zhaoyu stepped inside—completely dry, not a single raindrop on her.

“Heavy rain,” Lu Feng remarked, gazing through the curtain of water. “Washed all the dust away. Air feels fresher.”

*He’s praising my earlier handling,* Su Zhaoyu realized. *And “dust”… clearly means those Pantheon Cult remnants. Truly—no matter how high an esper’s tier, before the God of Medicine, they’re nothing but dust.*

“Did I cause any trouble?” Su Zhaoyu asked cautiously.

“Trouble? Well… that bolt tripped my circuit breaker. Water’s not boiling anymore,” Lu Feng said with an awkward chuckle.

*An attack rivaling a Ninth Tier Expert’s full-strength lightning array… only managed to flip a household breaker here,* Su Zhaoyu mused inwardly. *The God of Medicine’s depth is truly unfathomable.*

After a short exchange, Su Zhaoyu rose to leave. “Wishing you a pleasant reunion in a few days,” she said with a slight bow and a smile.

“Mm,” Lu Feng smiled faintly.

Watching her retreating figure, a quiet puzzlement stirred in him. *Why does she care so much about my class reunion?*

...

...

In a narrow, secluded alley, a man and woman stood before a grimy rental unit. Angela wrinkled her nose at the squalid sight.

Both wore crisp white uniforms, a badge pinned to each chest: three golden swords clashing.

“Angela. Burton,” he muttered. Without another word, Burton kicked the door open.

A rotting stench rolled out. Angela turned away, pinching her nose shut.

“What the hell happened here?” she muttered.

Burton stepped in silently, enduring the foul air. He flicked on his flashlight—the beam erupted a buzzing cloud of flies.

He waved them aside. Beneath the swarm lay two maggot-ridden corpses.

One was obese, grotesquely eviscerated—intestines spilled, congealed black blood splattered everywhere, mouth agape, eyes wide with final agony.

The other, emaciated and dark-skinned, slumped over a table, forehead pressed against a dead monitor as if trying to burrow inside. Clutched in his hand: the obese man’s decomposed entrails.

He’d tried forcing the gore through the screen. Again and again. Body passing through, organs stuck outside. Smearing blood and flesh across the glass in futile loops—until exhaustion, or starvation, took him.

“Dreams only admit the esper themselves,” Angela called from outside, still swatting flies.

“Basic knowledge for anyone granted our lord’s dream ability,” Burton said, frowning at the bodies. “He was clearly bewitched. Lost all reason.”

“Bewitched into carrying entrails… by what? Some entity? Another ability?”

“Unclear.” Burton pressed a hand to the emaciated corpse—the dream-wielder—and frowned again. “He died of starvation. Kept entering and exiting, obsessed with moving the entrails through. Never stopped. Never succeeded.”

“That’s… unnerving,” Angela murmured.

“Unknown entity. Report upward,” Burton said.

“I heard he disguised his dream hunt as a game. Boasted we’d come collect souls—ended up losing his own,” Angela shrugged. “Months behind on tributes, too.”

“And now our quota’s short,” she added dryly.

“Receiving power from our lord demands payment: monthly soul tributes for protection. Dying like this—mysteriously—harms our credibility,” Burton said, wiping his hand with a handkerchief.

“‘Protection’?” Angela scoffed. “Spare me. We’re just guarding a cash cow that pays souls on schedule.”

“True,” Burton conceded. “This hits our performance. We can’t ignore threats to our interests. But… given how unnatural this is? Beyond our scope. Report first.”

They closed the door and left. Behind them, the fly swarm descended once more upon the silent dead.