The Los Angeles night was alive with flashing neon, a current of desire and danger flowing through the dark side streets.
Mason walked towards his apartment, his mind still running through the precision of spiritual energy control needed for refining the "Plastic Machine Pill." He needed some common auxiliary materials to practice with and had just come from a 24-hour Asian herb shop, carrying an unassuming paper bag.
As he passed the alley next to the "Neon Abyss" nightclub, the muffled thump of music and glare of lasers seeping through the heavy curtain door made him quicken his pace instinctively. He had no interest in such noisy places.
But then, a stifled whimper and the crude jeers of men from the dim alley made him stop.
Inside, a group of drunk thugs surrounded a girl. She was young, maybe around twenty, wearing a cheap black slip dress that clung to her, outlining a stunning figure—full chest, slender waist, curved hips, and long, shapely legs. In the dim light, her frightened face had a fragile beauty.
Four thugs, with studded leather jackets and menacing tattoos, reeked of alcohol and cheap cologne. The leader, a bald man with a thick gold chain, was trying to shove the girl towards a dirty van.
"Come on, don't be like that, sweetheart. Just one more round with us, we'll show you a good time!" the bald man leered, revealing yellow teeth.
"No… let me go! I'll call the police!" the girl struggled, her voice tearful, but she was no match for their strength.
"Call the police? Ha! Do you even know who runs this street?" another skinny thug scoffed, reaching out to touch her face. "Our boss is 'Razor' Jason! He handles things for someone much bigger upstairs!"
The girl's resistance angered the thugs. The bald man cursed and roughly pushed her towards the van. The skinny thug laughed lewdly, his hand sliding up her inner thigh, lifting her dress—
"Hey, fellas." Mason's voice echoed in the alley, not loud, but unnaturally clear above the muffled club music and the thugs' noise. He walked in, holding his bag, a polite, almost absurd smile on his face. "Sorry to interrupt. Got a question: Are you planning on taking a clearly unwilling lady here, hoping the LAPD's Special Victims Unit takes a collective vacation tomorrow? Or do you think you're harder to catch than cockroaches, so you can just do whatever you want?"
The alley went silent for a second. The four thugs turned in unison, staring at this sudden apparition—a plainly dressed guy holding a paper bag—like he was crazy.
The bald man let go of the girl and looked Mason up and down, sneering, "Where the hell did you come from? You looking to die? Get lost, or I'll break your legs and feed you to the fish in the Pacific!"
"Such vulgar language," Mason sighed, carefully placing his paper bag on a clean trash can lid. "And for the record, attempted kidnapping plus sexual assault, if we can get the evidence, your combined sentences would be long enough to see you all with grey hair inside."
"Shit! You're dead!" The skinny thug, enraged, let go of the girl and swung a fist at Mason's face. To an ordinary person, it would seem fast, but to Mason's perception now, it was like a slow-motion movie scene, full of holes.
Mason barely moved. He just tilted his head slightly, the punch whistling past his ear. Simultaneously, his left hand shot out like a striking snake, precisely grabbing the guy's wrist. He twisted it gently.
*Crack!* A faint, crisp sound.
"AHHH—!!" The skinny thug let out a blood-curdling scream, his wrist hanging at a weird angle, and he crumpled to his knees.
The other three thugs were stunned for a moment, then charged in a rage. The bald man pulled a switchblade from his waistband, the blade glinting in the stray neon light.
The next ten seconds became a silent, brutally efficient demonstration in the alley.
Mason's movements were concise, sharp, without an ounce of waste. His speed was too great; their clumsy assault seemed full of holes. A knife-hand strike to the second thug's neck, and he crumpled without a sound. He sidestepped the bald man's thrust, kicked his knee from the side, making him scream and fall, the knife clattering away. The last thug tried to sneak up from behind, but Mason, as if with eyes in the back of his head, landed an elbow strike perfectly into his stomach. The guy dropped to his knees, clutching his belly, dry heaving, tears and snot streaming down his face.
Throughout it all, Mason's breathing didn't even quicken. That warm current inside him had naturally accelerated during the fight, granting him strength, speed, and reflexes far beyond ordinary men—more importantly, an absolute sense of control over the situation. The fighting style of these street punks was laughably childish in his eyes.
The bald man clutched his knee, face pale, staring at Mason in terror, his earlier arrogance completely gone. "Who… who the hell are you? Do you know who we work for?!"
"You mentioned it. 'Razor' Jason's boys." Mason walked over, crouched in front of him, and looked at him calmly. "So? Need me to call your 'big shot' right now and ask him how he disciplines his men? Allowing this kind of scumbag behavior in his own 'territory'? Or do you think he'd come after me over a few lowlifes like you?"
Mason's tone was calm, but something in it made the bald man's heart pound. The guy's moves were precise and vicious, clearly not ordinary. And his casual attitude when mentioning their "boss upstairs"… it made it impossible for the thug to gauge his depth.
"Misunderstanding… boss, all a misunderstanding!" the bald man forced a smile uglier than tears through the pain. "We were drunk, just joking with the lady… We'll go, we'll go right now!"
"Scram." Mason stood up, not looking at them again.
The three thugs who could still move scrambled to help their unconscious and wrist-snapped companions, fleeing into the van. The engine coughed to life, and they sped away from the alley.
Only then did Mason look at the girl. She was huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, trembling, her pretty eyes wide with terror and aftermath, staring blankly at him as if she hadn't processed the lightning-fast turn of events. One strap of her dress had slipped, revealing her pale shoulder and a hint of cleavage, but she didn't seem to notice.
Mason walked over, but didn't get too close. He took off his thin jacket and handed it to her. "Put this on. It's over."
The girl took the jacket with trembling hands and wrapped it around herself, finally seeming to regain a sliver of safety. She looked at Mason, lips quivering. "Th… thank you… sir…"
"You're welcome." Mason's voice softened a little. "Why are you out alone in a place like this so late?"
"I… I sing in the bar inside," the girl whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just got off work… They… they were harassing me inside earlier. I told the manager, but he was too scared to do anything… I didn't think they'd follow me out…"
A singer. Mason looked at her young, pretty face and striking figure. In this seedy place, that combination itself was a danger.
"Don't come here again," Mason said. He counted out five thousand dollars in cash—emergency money he always carried—and pressed it into her hand. "Find a safer job, or a different place to sing. This should help you get by for a while."
The girl looked at the thick stack of bills, then up at Mason. Tears finally spilled over. "I… I can't take this… You already saved me…"
"Take it." Mason's tone was firm. "Think of it as… a good Samaritan reward." He thought for a moment, then took out a simple business card with just a phone number printed on it (a backup contact he kept for potential alchemy deals). "If those guys bother you again, or you have any emergency, you can call this number. But I suggest you file a police report first."
The girl took the card, clutching it tightly like a lifeline. "Thank you… really, thank you… My name is Emily…"
"Go home now, Emily. Take a cab, don't skimp on the fare." Mason hailed a passing taxi for her, watched her get in, mentally noted the license plate, and gave the driver the address of a relatively safe neighborhood nearby, paying the fare upfront.
The taxi's taillights disappeared around the corner. Mason stood there, the night wind bringing a slight chill.
He looked down at his hands. The feeling of absolute control over his strength when he'd subdued those thugs was still clear. He wasn't the same Mason anymore.
But then, a wave of absurdity washed over him.
Who did he think he was? A nobody who, thanks to some inexplicably acquired alchemy knowledge, was barely starting to dabble on the fringes of the wealthy elite. A small-time player barely keeping his head above water. And tonight, he acted like some superhero, intervening and even giving out his number, saying "call me if you're in trouble"?
Superman? Spider-Man? Captain America? Give me a break.
What weighed on his mind more was that the initial "superpower"—that feeling of being manipulated by an invisible force, forced to experience bizarre tasks, which gave him the *Guide to Using the Emotional Rollercoaster* and *Urban Survival Guide: Crate Edition*—had completely vanished ever since the *Nine Revolutions Cauldron Alchemy Classic* fully integrated into his consciousness. It was gone, as if it never existed.
But in stark contrast, the contents of those three "manuals," especially the vast knowledge of the *Nine Revolutions Cauldron Alchemy Classic*, the 360 pill formulas, the spiritual energy pathways—they were deeply, permanently etched into his mind and instincts, without fading one bit along with that other power.
It felt strange. Like a mysterious "delivery man" had forced three packages on him (two ridiculous ones, one truly valuable), then vanished without a trace, leaving him alone to deal with their contents. He'd been forced to use the ridiculous ones, leaving behind embarrassing memories. But the valuable one was completely changing his life.
Who sent them? Why? What was the purpose? These questions had no answers, and perhaps never would.
He only knew that what he had now was real. Alchemy was real. Spiritual energy was real. The effects of the pills were real. Therefore, the opportunities and the dangers they brought would be just as real.
He himself was still entangled in thorns, his future uncertain, danger lurking everywhere. Where did he get the surplus energy or standing to act as someone else's protector? Tonight was chance. What about next time? What if it attracted the real "Razor" Jason, or even this so-called "big shot" behind him? How long could his power, just a step beyond ordinary, hold up against real power and the machinery of violence?
Helping Emily was the right thing to do, and he didn't regret it. But that naive "here's my number" gesture now seemed childish and dangerous. It could not only bring new trouble to Emily (if the thugs traced her) but also expose him to unnecessary risk.
Power needed matching wisdom and caution. And he was still learning.
Mason took a deep breath of the cool night air and picked up his paper bag from the trash can lid. The alley remained dark behind him; the neon noise seemed a little more distant. He turned and walked towards his apartment, his steps steady, but the turmoil in his heart took longer to settle.
Just as he reached his apartment building and was about to swipe his card to enter the lobby, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
The screen lit up in the darkness, and the name displayed made him pause slightly.
**Sophia Rockefeller.**