After Ashley left, the remaining six people fell silent, the atmosphere heavy and oppressive.
At a time like this, the captain should have stepped up to say something, but Roy was a staunch extraordinary theorist and had no intention of leading a witch hunt against the ability users in the team.
It was late in the evening, but not yet bedtime. They rested on straw mats, some reading small personal books, others lost in thought. Occasionally, someone stepped out for a smoke.
Time ticked by slowly, and hunger gnawed at their stomachs like a snake. The group’s gazes drifted intentionally or otherwise toward the seven or eight bento boxes Ashley had left behind.
“I’ve had enough!”
The black-haired girl with long straight hair suddenly shouted in frustration. She stood and headed toward Ashley’s luggage, her small face flushed with anger as she walked. “This is shared supplies. I’m taking one box. If the newbie has a problem with it, she can come find me.”
Roy’s eyes flickered with admiration. Miss Claire had chosen the perfect moment and angle to intervene—cleverly shifting the concept and leveraging her seniority to seize the initiative. It was straight out of office politics.
Slap!
Amber stepped forward, her little leather shoe clicking sharply.
“These are Ashley’s personal belongings. No one touches them without permission!” she declared, chin raised.
“She’s a member of the team, so everything—including her personal items—belongs to the team,” the black-haired girl replied coldly.
“You’re wrong. Self-purchased items belong to the individual. There’s no justification for taking them, and the situation hasn’t reached the point of requiring ’emergency measures,'” Amber shot back.
Though small in stature, she stood like an impenetrable wall, blocking Claire’s path.
“You—!”
Claire bit her fine white teeth, momentarily speechless.
When it came to arguing technicalities, she was no match for Amber.
Amber had only one thought in her mind: No matter how awful Ashley’s attitude was, bullying her was wrong!
Though the team’s mood had frozen solid, the captain and vice-captain, along with the middle-aged powerhouses like Theodore Bart who handled vehicle operation, remained silent. It hadn’t escalated to outright conflict yet.
Just then, a knock came from outside the warehouse.
Opening the door revealed the Boothslot Family’s butler and servants, carrying three wooden crates.
“There are no restaurants or inns in town, and since you gentlemen wish to avoid any appearance of favoritism by declining our hospitality, please accept these emergency rations. They’re just cheap dried meats, bread, and poor wine—nothing to raise eyebrows,” the butler said respectfully.
Roy pondered for a long moment before deciding to accept them for now.
Once the Boothslot Family members left, they opened the crates and found each one contained different foods.
The first crate held stacks of grass cakes wrapped in wax paper. Unlike the sour, fermented grass cakes the locals ate, these had a rich bean aroma without any foul odor. Breaking one open revealed it was made from bean bran and spinach.
The second crate contained soft, tasty white bread and sweet wine. Oddly, there was no butter, cream, or jam—making it somewhat plain.
The third crate was unusually heavy, packed to the brim with flavorful three-year-aged hams and cured beef and lamb.
“What are the Boothslots playing at? Are they forcing us to choose?” Roy sensed something.
“We could just eat from all three,” Elsa shrugged, trying to play it cool.
“Don’t be childish. This is a clear probe—our attitude toward the grass is rejection, toward the meat is caution, and toward the bread and wine is suspicion. They’re offering choices based on our reactions,” Roy scolded.
“Then… what do we do?” Elsa asked, head drooping dejectedly after the rebuke.
“Whatever they’re testing, we need to maintain our combat effectiveness. We can’t fight on empty stomachs. Come on, it’s time to choose. None of the crates have extraordinary fluctuations, and the White Beetles have already tested them for poison,” Roy said gravely.
The team deliberated—some paced back and forth, others rested their chins in thought, some crossed their arms.
If Ashley were here, she might have noticed more details, but the team didn’t value her input and hadn’t waited for her return.
In the end, Captain Roy chose the grass cakes. Claire, the black-haired girl, picked the bread and wine. Driver Theodore and the braided girl Elsa went for the meat. Amber and Linden opted not to eat for now.
“How does it feel?”
Roy asked after swallowing his last bite of grass cake.
“Tastes great. Maybe we’re overthinking it.”
Theodore speared a fatty strip of beef and chewed it slowly, savoring the satisfaction from the cholesterol.
The black-haired girl knelt gracefully, her calves and thighs forming an attractive side profile. She sat straight-backed, daintily slicing the bread into small pieces with a knife before forking them into her red lips, then sipping the foamy wine from a wooden cup.
“Maybe we’re just too tense, seeing shadows where there are none.”
She elegantly dabbed her lips with a handkerchief and added, “But that woman’s behavior is unforgivable! Once this mission’s done, only one of us can stay.”
“Me too!” Elsa pouted.
“Let’s focus on getting through this together first,” Roy quickly mediated.
Linden’s eyes shifted. He pulled out a cigarette case, took a slim ladies’ cigarette, lit it, and stepped out the door.
Leaving the warehouse, he didn’t smoke in the corner but wove through streets and alleys to the town center’s clock tower. He climbed to the top and stepped onto the outward-protruding balcony.
He glanced up at the now-clear night sky, stars sharp and bright like fog wiped from glasses.
From his pocket, he drew a small mirror, held it up, and adjusted the angle to reflect a patch of starlight.
A mystical power descended from the heavens, threads of it gathering on the silver mirror to form rows of intricate, obscure cuneiform script.
Linden could read it. In truth, it was a melody of hundreds of rising and falling syllables—not read, but sung. Singing it would produce a long, shrill insect chirp.
Of course, human vocal cords couldn’t manage it.
‘The Boothslot Family has ties to some ancient families…
These families’ research into ‘spirituality’ rivals ours, and they may even have means to counter “Lost Paradise”…
Warning! Enemy at seven-thirty position!’
The text cut off abruptly!
Linden’s face changed. He raised and tilted the mirror—sure enough, beside the chimney of a red-brick building to his side-rear stood a strange man.
He wore a crisp, brand-new tailcoat of pure black, masterfully tailored to perfection, accentuating his tall, elegant figure.
At the black lapel sat a white shirt and red silk bow tie: black gloom, white brilliance, glaring red.
A blank white mask covered his face. From his thick, curly brown hair protruded two crystalline, amber-like antelope horns, arching gracefully.
Through the mask’s eyeholes gleamed two cold, illusory orange slit pupils.
In the mirror, the man raised his arm, right hand formed into a gun shape, left hand bracing the wrist as if countering recoil. His fingertip aimed straight at Linden’s back.
Linden’s hairs stood on end. He instinctively dodged to the side!
Bang!
A massive boom echoed. Where he’d stood, the wall exploded in a shower of stone and dust!
Linden’s scalp tightened, eyes widening in terror, heart pounding with aftershock!
If not for Moracha’s warning via Star Chain Communication, his brains would be splattered across the wall!
“What… what the hell?!”
In his peripheral vision, he saw the bullet hole in the wall embedded with a spiral horn-shaped phalange. Cracks radiated clockwise from it, spiderwebbing across the wall at terrifying speed—reaching several meters in diameter within seconds!
In Linden’s mind, the man’s threat level shot up another notch.
He realized that even a graze would let that spiral force invade his body, wringing out his blood and organs like twisting a towel!
