"Good. There will be a hoverjet waiting for you on the rooftop in 10 minutes," Henry said, then added, "No need to rush—take your time and finish your preparations."
It was a subtle reminder. This wasn’t a walk in the park. He was expected to prepare properly.
I guess he’s not giving me any new equipment this time, Adyr thought.
Before the Cannibal operation, they’d provided him with a full STF bat suit and a selection of high-grade weapons, pletely free of charge. But this time, it made sense. His current gear was already built from the latest tech available, and the research division likely hadn’t developed anything better since then.
As for weapons, there was no point. The standard STF firearms were already proving ineffective against the mutants attacking Shelter City 8. Offering him one now would’ve been meaningless.
Right after ending the call with Henry, Adyr’s wristband vibrated again. He glanced at the screen—this time, it was Victor.
"Hey," Adyr said, picking up without delay.
"Yo, where the hell have you been?" Victor’s voice echoed loudly through the line. His tense expression and raised tone made it obvious—he’d been trying to reach Adyr for a while. But between the simulation room and the long conversation with Henry, Adyr had been unavailable.
"I was just talking to your father," Adyr replied, already guessing why Victor was calling.
"My father? Let me guess—he wants you to go to Shelter City 8?"
"Yeah." Adyr sighed. "I’m leaving in 10 minutes."
"10 minutes? Great. See you there." Victor ended the call before waiting for a response.
"This guy," Adyr muttered with mild amusement, then turned and headed to his room to prepare.
The process was simple. First, he manded his other body—still deep in sword training—to strip off its gear. He changed into one of the many fortable outfits Vesha had prepared and stored in his wardrobe. The full bat equipment was then transferred to Twilight Land.
He left only the right-hand sword with his alternate body so the training could continue, then retrieved the rest of the gear with his Earth body.
"I should buy a second set," he muttered as he stood before the mirror, fully equipped—save for the single black sword strapped across his back.
Even with the double 50% discount, all this equipment had cost him 4,575 merits. He only had 1,090 left—not nearly enough for another full set. For now, he’d have to switch gears between bodies.
Standard STF uniforms and weapons no longer met his needs. Until he gathered enough merit, this workaround was the most efficient option.
Leaving his room, he took the main elevator up to the top floor. From there, he placed his hand on the biometric scanner of an internal access lift. The screen lit up: Identity Approved. The doors slid open, and he stepped inside, ascending to the rooftop.
As the wide elevator reached the open rooftop and the doors slid apart, a wave of suffocating air hit Adyr in the face.
Earth’s atmosphere had always been heavy and polluted, but up here—at the top of such a tall building—closer to the ever-present yellowish smog that stained the skies, the filth in the air became even more pronounced. A faint breeze carried it across the landing zone, thick and sour.
Not that it bothered him. His heightened stats no longer allowed such disforts to reach him. If anything, there was a certain charm to the oppressive, post-apocalyptic gloom. A world barely clinging to survival had its own kind of allure.
"Sir."
The moment Adyr stepped off the elevator, a man in a standard STF uniform greeted him with a sharp salute.
The formality caught him off guard. That kind of address was typically reserved for manding officers.
Granted, in terms of raw power and mission priority, he was above every STF operative in the city. His current assignment made that fact clear. But the military hierarchy didn’t shift just because someone was strong. Titles mattered. Without an official rank, the chain of mand remained absolute.
Which left him wondering—Did Henry give me a rank without telling me?
Without a word, he returned the salute just as formally, then followed the soldier across the rooftop toward the waiting hoverjet.
The vehicle resembled a massive drone, though far more imposing, easily large enough to carry at least 20 passengers. Its body was coated in matte black plating, sleek and angular. The overall silhouette evoked memories of a B-2 Spirit stealth bomber from his previous life, though with key differences.
Where the B-2 had flat, bat-like wings, this craft featured four extended wing structures—each equipped with enormous ducted rotors, giving it vertical lift and hover capabilities. At the rear, a recessed jet thruster was built into the chassis, clearly designed for long-range, high-speed flight.
If not for the spinning rotors at its flanks, Adyr might have mistaken it for a next-generation military bomber rather than a hoverjet.
Beside the hoverjet, a squad of armed STF personnel stood at attention, alert and ready. Their stances were sharp, disciplined. They were securing the rooftop perimeter, eyes scanning the haze-drenched skyline for any potential threat.
The moment they spotted Adyr, they turned as one and offered a synchronized salute, crisp and professional.
What’s this now? Adyr returned the gesture with a slight nod, concealing his reaction behind a neutral expression.
As he kept walking, a familiar figure broke off from the formation and approached him. Gray, close-cropped hair. Steel-colored eyes that never lost their edge. That distinctive, half-crouched walk, always carrying the tension of someone ready to strike. Rhys Graves, STF mander, was approaching.
"Well, well. Look who actually showed up on time for his first official mission—Captain Adyr." His voice carried a teasing edge, the kind that always seemed to mock and test in equal measure.
Adyr accepted the offered handshake as he raised an eyebrow. "Captain?"
"You don’t know?" Rhys blinked, slightly surprised. "Henry didn’t tell you?"
He crossed his arms, smirking. "Your rank was approved exactly one hour ago. Direct order from the City Manager himself. Hell, it’s probably already on public broadcast—some government channel introducing the new PTF division and their precious third-generation mutants. In a few hours, there’ll be official press conferences in all 12 cities. They’re planning to unveil the truth about the other world... and the future it’s dragging with it."
Adyr stood still for a moment, processing the weight behind those words. He’d expected something like this eventually—but not like this. "So that’s why they gave me the title?"
Rhys chuckled. "Of course. How else are they going to promote a new division without a poster boy?"
He narrowed his eyes, his grin widening with something between mockery and admiration. "Boy, this mission will be your debut—as the first and only Captain of PTF. It’ll go down in history. You ready for that?"
Adyr didn’t answer immediately.
The motive behind it was clear. The City Managers were finally moving forward with something they had been delaying for too long—officially assigning him a surname. And they weren’t doing it quietly.
They were preparing to reveal the existence of PTF—and the other world itself—to the public. And for that, they needed a symbol. Someone who could carry the weight of fear and hope alike. Someone strong enough to inspire safety... and human enough to make people trust him.
They’d chosen Adyr.
Not just because he was the strongest among all Players, but because he had no surname, no noble origin, no connection to privilege. A ghost without a past. Someone the mon people could relate to. A symbol they could believe in.
He was, in every sense, the perfect candidate.
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