The ICU's sterile white walls vanished like they'd been erased.
In their place stretched an endless void of pure white space. No up, no down, no medium for sound—just massive, translucent gear phantoms grinding and rotating in the emptiness.
*Click, click.*
The thunderous roar of universal logic in motion.
Mom lay wrapped in a translucent cocoon on her hospital bed, that golden higher-dimensional beacon frantically draining her remaining life force like squeezing a withered lemon dry.
"Here, Newton's coffin can't hold me down. Neither can Einstein."
Old Graves floated in midair, his white coat dissolving into streams of flowing data. He pushed nonexistent glasses up his nose, looking down at the ants below.
"This is the 'Temporal Operating Room.' I'm the surgeon. You're medical waste."
"Too much talk!"
Lyra Vane snarled, her right foot stomping empty air as her red coat carved a bloody line through the white void. Twin blades crossed, she lunged for Old Graves's throat.
The blade stopped three meters away.
Not blocked.
*Rusted.*
Those high-frequency particle knives that could slice tank armor experienced thousands of years in an instant.
*Sizzle—*
Rust spread across the blades at visible speed, then weathered and crumbled into iron dust that scattered like snow.
Lyra Vane's pupils contracted. She tried to retreat, but Old Graves merely flicked his finger dismissively.
"Temporal stripping."
*Hum!*
The air around Lyra Vane crystallized into amber. Her movements slowed infinitely, even her shocked expression frozen in that single frame.
Her mechanical right eye spun frantically, trying to analyze this force, but sparked and smoked instead.
In this domain, Old Graves was absolute god.
"Mortal struggles—boring and expensive."
Old Graves shook his head, turning toward the motionless Ethan Cross. "As for you... hmm?"
His gaze suddenly froze.
Because Ethan Cross was moving.
In this absolute domain where even light speed was redefined, Ethan Cross strolled toward the frozen Lyra Vane like walking through his backyard.
His polished leather shoes clicked crisply against empty air.
*Tap, tap.*
"Impossible." The gear phantoms behind Old Graves stuttered. "You have no divine spark—why can you ignore temporal laws?"
Ethan Cross reached Lyra Vane's side, gently brushing rust dust from her shoulder.
He looked up through his glasses, eyes holding no fear—only the cold calculation of settling accounts.
"Laws? To a merchant, time isn't law."
Ethan Cross pointed at the wildly burning **∞** symbol above his head, lips curving in mocking disdain.
"Time is merchandise on shelves, deposits in banks, circulating currency."
"As long as I can pay interest, your laws are my cleaning rags."
He pressed his palm against Lyra Vane's cold back.
Lyra Vane struggled to move her eyes. In that viscous temporal gap, she heard Ethan Cross's voice.
Not battlefield commands—auction house declarations, carrying desperate madness and decadence.
"Lyra Vane, your blades are dull."
"Not because you're weak. Because I underpaid you."
Ethan Cross clenched his fist as his retinal interface exploded in red warnings.
**[WARNING: Illegal operation detected!]**
**[Accessing causal loan...]**
**[Payment amount: 1000 years!]**
"Transfer... NOW!!!"
*BOOM—!!!*
Not holy white light or eerie black mist.
From Ethan Cross's palm erupted heavy, viscous **liquid gold** flowing with metallic luster!
A thousand years of pure life force, violently compressed by the system into an energy torrent!
This power reeking of money brutally flooded Lyra Vane's body, instantly shattering Old Graves's temporal shackles.
"AHHH—!"
Lyra Vane threw back her head in a long howl.
From her broken blade hilts, golden liquid gushed out, not solidifying but extending and reshaping into three-meter **purple-gold light blades**!
Currency symbols and lifespan numbers flowed across the blade surfaces, radiating suffocating nouveau riche aura.
*Sharpness bought with money.*
Lyra Vane's pale skin became crystal clear, the air behind her distorting into golden light wings from energy overload.
Power.
Endless power.
Like driving a sports car with a nuclear fuel tank—no need to worry about the gas pedal.
"What... what is this disgusting power?!"
Old Graves lost composure for the first time, stepping back. He felt the worldly desires in that energy—the greatest blasphemy against higher-dimensional purity.
"Disgusting? This is what all beings crave most."
Ethan Cross stood behind Lyra Vane like a puppet master controlling a demon god, sickly fervor on his pale face.
He pointed at Old Graves.
"Lyra Vane, this blade costs a thousand years per minute."
"Don't save me money."
"Kill him!"
The confusion in Lyra Vane's eyes vanished, replaced by ultimate killing intent. Her right eye's gears exceeded physical limits with a sharp explosion.
*The sound of money hitting the ground.*
*Whoosh!*
Purple-gold light carved through space.
"Divine Shield—Access Denied!" Old Graves thrust both hands forward, a transparent barrier of countless formulas blocking his front.
Higher-dimensional defense, capable of surviving nuclear ground zero unharmed.
*Crack!*
No resistance whatsoever.
Not even 0.01 seconds of delay.
That "absolute defense" temporal barrier melted like butter before a heated knife under the violent expenditure of "a thousand years of lifespan," instantly dissolving and crumbling.
The light blade continued unimpeded, slashing diagonally across Old Graves's chest!
"AHHH—!!!"
The higher-dimensional being's scream tore through dimensions, sounding like ten thousand servers overloading simultaneously.
Old Graves's perfect form split open in a massive gash. No blood—just countless blue data errors fountaining out.
His prized "temporal immunity" completely failed.
Because this strike didn't cut flesh—it cut his "existence cost."
"Impossible... my processing power... my dimension..." Old Graves stared at the wound in terror, golden energy eating through his data like acid.
"Not finished!"
Ethan Cross gave him no breathing room, roaring mentally: "System! Add five hundred more years! Buy his left hand!"
**[Payment successful.]**
Lyra Vane's light blade doubled in size again, backhanding upward like a golden waterfall in reverse.
Old Graves panicked completely.
*This isn't combat! This is money-bombing!*
Each strike burned enough lifespan to sustain a civilization for ten generations! Even the Higher Council couldn't afford this fighting style!
"Madmen! You're both insane!"
Watching that galaxy-severing strike fall, Old Graves's eyes flashed with painful resolve.
*Splurt!*
His left arm severed at the root, becoming scattered blue data fragments.
Using that impact force, Old Graves's form instantly phased as the gear phantoms behind him shattered.
"Ethan Cross! You've over-drafted causality—you're on the Council's blacklist!"
"Enjoy your final moments. Every hound in the universe will smell you coming... I'll wait in hell!"
His voice still echoed as Old Graves became a fleeing light beam, desperately diving through a space rift and vanishing.
*Hum—*
With the domain lord's escape, that oppressive white realm instantly collapsed.
Reality's chaos flooded back like a tide.
In the ICU, shattered bulletproof glass covered the floor as cold wind poured through broken windows, stirring curtains.
*Beep—beep—beep—*
The monitor produced steady heartbeat sounds.
Ethan Cross immediately looked toward the bed.
The terrifying geometric beacon above Mom's head had been violently destroyed, leaving only a brief but real countdown:
**[00:180:00:00]**
One hundred eighty days.
Not much, not little.
But this was victory.
Ethan Cross's taut nerves suddenly snapped. His legs gave out as he fell backward.
Warm hands caught him steadily.
Lyra Vane's light blades had long since dissipated. Her coat hung in tatters, exposed skin covered in golden cracks—energy overload aftereffects.
They locked eyes. This time, Lyra Vane's cold mechanical eye held a trace of human warmth and post-trauma relief.
"You just now..." Lyra Vane's voice trembled, her hands shaking as she supported him. "How much did you spend?"
*That spending sensation was too terrifying—like burning the entire world.*
Ethan Cross leaned weakly against the wall, removing his glasses to rub his temples.
He glanced at his still-unconscious mother, then at the devastation, forcing a smile uglier than tears.
"Not much."
"Just mortgaged my next few lifetimes."
With trembling hands, he opened the black ledger.
Previously blank pages now slowly revealed lines of shocking blood-red text, each character seeming to burn.
Ethan Cross's pupils contracted violently.
**[Transaction violation: Excessive causal overdraft.]**
**[Punishment assessment in progress...]**
**[Punishment established: Universal A-class warrant activated.]**
**[Current status: Universal coordinate broadcast (24-hour countdown).]**
Looking down, at the ledger's bottom, the balance number had become despair-inducing black.
**[Current debt: -3000 years.]**
**[Note: Repay interest within 30 days or face forced soul collection.]**
Three thousand years.
*Even chopped into sashimi and sold to vampires for ten thousand years wouldn't clear this debt.*
Ethan Cross's vision darkened, feeling more hopeless than facing that deity.
He slowly closed the ledger, taking a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking.
"Lyra Vane, help me up."
"Whether it's the underworld or that cultivation realm... anywhere will do."
Ethan Cross raised his right hand, now becoming translucent from overdraft, desperately gripping Lyra Vane's sleeve.
"We need to run."