The nights in the Emerald Street district were forcibly propped open by artificial light sources known as "Micro-Day Spheres." That stark, sterile white glare fell upon Gu Hanzhou's cloak, evoking in him a visceral sense of disgust.
Compared to the pure, coal-choked darkness of the Lower District, the "light" here felt like a cheap coat of paint slapped over a rotting foundation. It wasn't meant to illuminate; it was meant to hide the stench of the crumbling order beneath.
Gu Hanzhou pulled his hood lower, sidestepping the sweeping crimson gaze of a low-altitude surveillance drone that hummed overhead.
"Adjutant Shen."
A high-pitched, reedy whisper drifted from a narrow alleyway. Gu Hanzhou's hand instantly found the hilt of [Black Order], his body pivoting slightly to the side. Through his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a stunted, hunched figure draped in a dark-green oilskin raincoat.
This was "The Rat," the contact mentioned by the Old Fox.
"Papers." The Rat didn't waste words. He extended a deformed, claw-like hand that possessed only three fingers.
Gu Hanzhou slammed the forged Quartermaster ID into the creature's palm, his eyes never leaving the movements on the main street. Nearby, two Inquisition acolytes leaned against an automated vending machine. They were chatting, but their hands remained suspiciously close to the electromagnetic batons at their waists.
Lin Xiu's lockdown had already bled into the Mid-Tier Sector.
The Rat scanned the ID with a handheld micro-terminal. A soft beep signaled the confirmation. A jagged, unpleasant smile split the Rat's withered face. "Lord Shen, your 'Reassignment Decree' has been synchronized with the Mid-Tier Quartermaster database. Your current status is an injured veteran returning to duty. You've been put in charge of inventory at Warehouse No. 3."
"Where is it?" Gu Hanzhou asked. His voice, filtered through the metallic face-mask, sounded like the grinding of cold iron.
"At the far end of Emerald Street, right on the border of the Sanguine Clan's concession," the Rat pointed a crooked finger toward the northern horizon, a strange glint flickering in his eyes. "A friendly warning, Lord Shen. Warehouse No. 3 is a 'lucrative' post, dripping with grease. But the Inquisition isn't the only one watching it. The 'Ash-Walkers' like to 'borrow' things from there quite often."
Gu Hanzhou didn't respond. He snatched back his ID and walked directly into the neon-drenched depths of the street.
Warehouse No. 3.
It sounded like a quiet, stagnant post for a forgotten soldier. But Gu Hanzhou knew better. In any war machine, the man in charge of inventory was the one best positioned to touch "off-book" contraband—high-purity Order Crystals or restricted military Combat-Art Engravings.
He needed those resources to fuel his second metamorphosis now that he had reached the peak of the Awakening Phase.
As he rounded a corner, his pace slowed.
In the center of a plaza, a group of ornately dressed aristocrats had formed a circle. In the middle were several mine-slaves, stripped to the waist. Primitive, brutal Order-Pressure devices had been grafted directly onto their spines, stretching their skin until it was translucent. Their Order Blood, forced into a state of extreme compression, pulsed with a bruised, near-black violet hue.
"Bite him! Tear his throat out!"
The aristocrats waved their betting slips, screaming with a feverish, manic joy.
One slave lunged at the other, his hands mutated into jagged, wolf-like claws. With a sickening wet sound, blood splattered across the pristine white silk dress of a young noblewoman standing at the front.
Instead of screaming in horror, she let out a tinkling, melodic giggle. She reached out a finger, dabbed a bit of the warm blood from her hem, and smeared it across her lips like lipstick.
Gu Hanzhou felt a surge of silent mockery behind his mask.
In the Lower District, slaves struggled to live. In the Mid-Tier, they mutated just to entertain.
He gripped the black scabbard of his blade and pushed through the crowd of revelers. No one spared him a glance. To them, a scarred, mute adjutant returning from the front was as insignificant as a grain of dust on the pavement.
However, as Gu Hanzhou reached the massive gates of the warehouse, a thick, metallic scent of blood caused his combat instincts to flare.
The electronic lock on the main gate had been violently dismantled. Two garrison guards lay slumped at the entrance, their throats opened with terrifyingly clean, professional incisions.
This wasn't the work of a mindless aberration. These were professional killers.
Gu Hanzhou's right hand settled onto the hilt of [Black Order]. According to the persona of "Shen Bai," he should have immediately sounded the alarm and retreated to wait for reinforcements.
But he was not Shen Bai.
Inside him, the dark-gold Order Blood thrummed with excitement. He had been looking for a way to test the explosive power of his Peak-Awakening state, and these intruders were the perfect whetstones for his blade.
He pushed the door open silently and stepped inside, relocking the gate behind him.
Inside, towering shipping containers formed a natural labyrinth of steel. From the center of the maze, low, hurried voices drifted through the cold air:
"Hurry up! Lord Lin specifically demanded this batch of 'Liquid Order-Ore.' if the Ash-Walkers get to it first, we're all dead men!"
Gu Hanzhou's eyes narrowed into cold slits.
It was a small world.
This wasn't just a raid; it was Lin Xiu lining his own pockets with stolen military assets.
Gu Hanzhou moved like a shadow, scaling the side of a container and leaping onto the overhead crane rails. From his vantage point, he saw three men dressed in dark-grey tactical gear surrounding a metallic crate that emitted a ghostly blue glow.
They bore no Inquisition insignia, but their movements carried the unmistakable hallmark of military training—Lin Xiu's "Shadow Guard," the private mercenaries he used to handle his dirty work.
"Since it belongs to Lin Xiu..."
Gu Hanzhou's pupils contracted, a flicker of dark-gold light flashing in their depths.
"...then I'll take it as a down payment."
He released his grip, plummeting vertically from the fifteen-meter height. In the middle of the fall, [Black Order] cleared its sheath without a sound, tracing a lethal, black arc through the air that seemed to tear the very atmosphere apart.