Ery Shaw still rembered Director Vaughn’s favorite saying: "Better to wrongly apprehend than to let one escape." It had sounded reasonable enough back then, but who could have predicted this? The highest authority in the Ninth Division, the one in charge of dealing with paranormal cases, turned out to be the mastermind behind everything.
After receiving the news, Ery pretended he needed to use the restroom and quietly slipped away. He wanted to find a way to reach Ethan, but with Ethan gone from the island, there was no way to contact him. They had exchanged phone numbers, but there was no signal here. His only option was to head toward Amber Zane’s house—if anyone might have a way to reach Ethan, it would be her. Their relationship had beco... rather complicated.
He was about a hundred ters from her house when sothing flashed across the sea. A streak of white light sliced through the darkness, hovering high in the air. Ery narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t a light at all—it was a person. A person who could fly.
He froze, instinctively ducking behind cover. The figure paused briefly in midair, as if confirming their direction, then shot forward again like a teor. A mont later, the light vanished—right in front of Amber Zane’s house.
Ery had seen it clearly. Whoever that was, they had entered her ho. His stomach tightened. He could feel the malice from here.
After a short hesitation, he reached up and pulled out his left eyeball. The orb was artificial—one of his custom devices. The mont he held it in his hand, his arm began to extend, stretching impossibly thin until it was little more than a black line reaching across the hundred-ter gap. He pressed the artificial eye against Amber’s window.
Through his remaining eye, the scene ca into focus. Amber Zane was suspended in the air, a hand gripping her throat. She struggled soundlessly, feet kicking at nothing. The man holding her was the sa one Ery had just seen—dressed in archaic clothing, straight out of another century.
A dozen thoughts flashed through Ery’s mind, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t take that man head-on.
He quietly detached the eye, leaving it by the open window. Eight chanical legs unfolded from the orb, anchoring it in place. Then he drew his arm back, returning it to normal length, and reached inside his jacket.
From the uniform of the Dissenters, he pulled out a flare. Each mber carried one—an ergency beacon to be used only under the most extre circumstances. Gritting his teeth, he lit it.
A sharp hiss filled the air, followed by a deafening boom. A blazing red symbol appeared high above the eastern coast—a single, enormous word: ENEMY.
The entire shoreline lit up under the crimson glare.
Within seconds, shadows shot across the night sky toward him—figures rushing in from the patrol units who hadn’t gone drinking. More followed behind, dozens of them, slower but coming fast.
"What’s going on?" soone shouted as they approached.
Seeing reinforcents arrive, Ery didn’t waste ti explaining. "Enemy attack!" he shouted, already sprinting toward Amber’s house.
The responders hesitated only for a heartbeat. The flare was forbidden to use except in dire ergencies—no one would trigger it unless the situation was critical. That was all they needed to know. They charged after him.
Then, just as Ery reached the steps—boom! Amber Zane’s room exploded.
Out of the smoke and fire stepped a man, holding a woman by the hand.
Everyone froze. Only now did they understand what Ery Shaw had ant by "enemy attack." The aura radiating from the man before them was monstrous—dense, suffocating, and utterly inhuman.
"A bunch of small fry, daring to block this young lord?"
The man’s voice was filled with disdain. He was Alaric, and his arrogance was enough to set the entire group of Dissenters ablaze with fury. Within monts, those who had been drinking earlier ca rushing over, forming a rough semicircle around him.
"Shaw! What the hell happened to your eye?" a man with a goatee shouted, rushing forward. His tone carried both shock and confusion.
Ery didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t this man’s superior—he had only co because of a summons. He had arrived early; the others had yet to show. In truth, he didn’t even know if they would show at all.
"Damn it," Ery snapped, his tone laced with pain. "I got ambushed while taking a piss. The bastard took out my eye."
Dark fluid oozed from the empty socket, dripping down his cheek. The sight drew a collective gasp from those nearby—but none of them realized it was all an act.
In the rubble behind Alaric, sothing small and round crept forward with the precision of a hunting spider. Ery’s missing "eye," supported by eight slender chanical legs, skittered silently over broken stone and ash. Its target was clear: Amber Zane, still gripped by Alaric’s hand.
"When did I—" Alaric began, but Ery cut him off, his leg whipping forward in a blur.
His limb stretched unnaturally, shooting out more than ten ters in an instant, the sole of his boot aid straight for Alaric’s face. It wasn’t ant to land—it was an insult, a taunt, ant to throw the man off balance.
"You’re asking for death!"
Alaric’s fury ca like a storm. He moved in a flash, his punch connecting with Ery’s leg. The impact rang out with a deep thud.
But instead of shattering, Ery’s leg absorbed the blow, rippling like thick rubber before springing back. The strike did nothing. His body had long since evolved past normal human limits—cut him, crush him, tear him apart, he’d only mold himself back together.
The confrontation was the spark that set the night ablaze.
Dozens of Dissenters launched into action, their formation honed by countless missions. Close-quarters fighters lunged in first, while ranged specialists circled, ready to strike. Support units took positions behind them, weaving a tight net around Alaric.
It should have been enough to overwhelm anyone. But this wasn’t anyone.
Boom.
A deafening pulse erupted from Alaric’s body. The shockwave hit like an invisible hamr, sweeping through the group. n spat blood and flew through the air like rag dolls, their weapons scattering across the sand. They crashed into the ground with dull, wet thuds—unmoving.
"A bunch of trash," Alaric sneered, his voice rising with cruel delight. "You dare lay hands on ? You all die."
His aura surged again, thick and tangible, twisting the air around him. With a flick of his wrist, a weapon shimred into existence—a slender rapier, drawn from the wide belt at his waist. It wasn’t a conjured artifact like those of the Mutants. It was real. Forged. Deadly.
The sword bent slightly as he raised it, flexible as a whip. Its tip glowed, burning white, like a tiny star trapped at the end of the blade.
Hidden at the edge of the fight, Ery didn’t move. His artificial eye had crawled to Alaric’s feet, giving him a perfect view. He could see every detail—the hidden sheath, the strange elasticity of the blade, the faint symbols carved along its surface.
Then, Alaric flicked his wrist.
The glowing point flashed, and a streak of light tore through the air toward Ery’s position.
"Holy—" Ery barely had ti to react before the violent surge of energy roared straight at him.
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