Details emerged with newfound clarity. In the morning light, X’s hair revealed deep, wine-red undertones. Her features were sharply carved, the mixed heritage evident, a certain cold distance etched into the set of her eyes and brow. Yet when she bent over the equipment, her focus absolute, that intensity softened her features, making her seem… less like a blade poised to be drawn.

Their final equipment check unfolded in the basement.

The safehouse’s lower level was a compact arsenal and workshop. Weapons lined the walls—from classic AK variants to state-of-the-art sniper systems, bladed steel glinting beside blocks of composition explosive, all meticulously ordered. On the workbench, partially disassembled electronics lay scattered among custom tools.

X was calibrating a communication set. An anti-static bracelet hugged her wrist; her fingers flew across the circuitry with fluid speed, the soldering iron in her hand moving with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Encrypted channel, cascade-wave algorithm,” she said, her voice slightly muffled by the dust mask. “Fifty-kilometer range. A+ grade anti-jamming. It should slip past the Nightwatchers’ passive sweep. But if they initiate an active scan…” She paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his for a fraction of a second, “we’ll have thirty seconds of masking. At best.”

Santali picked up a finished unit. It was compact, barely larger than a standard earpiece, yet carried a discernible weight, hinting at the dense components within.

“Contingency?” he asked.

“Integrated micro-thermal charge in each unit,” she replied, attention already returned to her work. “If it detects forced breach or pinpoint triangulation, it melts the core in 0.3 seconds. Nothing left to trace.”

Thorough. Always thorough. He fitted the device into his left ear, adjusting until it sat flush against his skin.

“Test it,” X said, securing her own unit.

Three seconds of silence, then her voice resonated inside his skull, clear as if at his ear: [Channel check. Confirm reception.]

[Received. Signal clear,] he subvocalized.

He watched as she gave a slight nod, confirming her reception.

"Now, for weapons." X moved to the wall and retrieved a rifle with a distinctive silhouette. "Modified VSS Vintorez—barrel extended five centimeters for improved stability at medium-long range. Chambered for specialized subsonic rounds. Near-silent within three hundred meters."

Santali took the rifle. Its weight, balance, the way it settled into his grip—every parameter felt tailored. Even the stock length matched his arm span perfectly.

"How’d you get my measurements?" he asked, not challenging, just curious.

X pulled a file from a workbench drawer and slid it toward him. "Full-body scan while you were out. Bone density, joint mobility, old injury distribution… all factored into the mods."

Santali leafed through the file. The scan was exhaustive, cataloging even old scars—the puckered skin below his left scapula, the slight wear in his right meniscus, the minor misalignment between his T7 and T8 vertebrae. In the wrong hands, this data could have plotted three separate kill scenarios tailored just for him.

She had used it to adjust the curve of a rifle grip.

"Thorough," Santali remarked, returning the file with a faint, precise smile. "Recommend this doctor for my next physical. Though the anesthetic dosage was… ambitious."

X took the file, her fingers pausing at its edge. "The shoulder wound… Crimson Tide’s work?"

Santali touched the spot below his shoulder blade, feeling the slight ridge. "Nineteen," he said, tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "A welcome-back gift from the Genesis T. Target was a defector—turned out to be an old acquaintance."

He paused, a flicker of dark amusement in his violet eyes.

“Crimson Tide laughed for a solid ten seconds when he recognized me. Said, ‘So the Whites’ little monster still breathes.’ Then he shot me. A deliberate miss—called it ‘saving space for a medal on the old man’s son.’ ”

X’s fingers tightened minutely, creasing the edge of the paper.

"Was he dealt with? "

"Op required him alive. I brought him in. Three days later, he bit down on a cyanide capsule… bitter way to go."

His gaze lingered on the file in her hands, as if discussing trivialities.

"First time I realized what the Nightwatchers wanted from him was probably worth more than my entire career combined."

X was silent. She moved to the other side of the workbench, unlocked a metal case, and retrieved an object—not a weapon, but a worn leather-bound notebook.

"Found in one of Crimson Tide’s safe houses after he died," she said, handing it over. "Mostly encrypted. I’ve cracked about eighty percent. But some sections… different cipher. Couldn’t break it."

Santali took the notebook. The cover was scuffed, corners stained a dark reddish-brown—blood, perhaps. He opened it. On the first page, a sentence was scrawled in hurried Cyrillic:

【Правдастрашнеесмерти — вотеёдар.】

(Truth is more terrible than death—that is its gift.)

The script was forceful, nearly gouging the paper.

He flipped through. Standard Genesis T encryption dominated, but interspersed were strange symbols and diagrams—unlike any known code, more like a personal shorthand.

And Santali recognized a few.

The Whites had taught them to him at six, alongside their letters. “Some words can’t be written, only drawn——these symbols are our cipher.”

His fingers traced the notations, trembling slightly.

The symbols were simple, but their combined meaning chilled him:

**[?? is the key]

[The altar requires ??]

[Ten is not the limit, but the cage]**

His hand moved unconsciously to the wound on his abdomen. He looked up at X. Her dark eyes were fixed on him.

"You recognize these?" Her voice was soft.

Santali nodded. "Need time. These aren’t sentences—just fragments. And…" He turned to a specific page, his finger halting as if held by an invisible force.

On it was a drawing that defied simple comprehension—less an illustration, more a sigil. A perfect circle enclosing ten points arranged with unsettling mathematical precision. Lines connected them in a dizzying, non-human pattern, as if grown rather than drawn.

"What is this?" X whispered.

Santali’s violet eyes seemed to look through the paper. "I don’t know," he admitted. Then he added, "But the Whites taught similar patterns. Called it…" He paused, choosing his words with care,

"—the world’s original blueprint."

A cold, grand design vast enough to shatter all known understanding.

They held each other’s gaze, seeing the same reflection—the primal tremor of a life form confronted by a cosmic unknown.

"Can I study this tonight?" Santali asked. "I’ll share what I decipher before we move out."

X hesitated. Entrusting a vital asset to someone she’d known for less than three days was a risk.

Finally, she nodded. "Yes. But it doesn’t leave this room. You work here."

A reasonable condition. Santali accepted.

The hours that followed found him immersed in the world of the notebook. Crimson Tide’s handwriting sprawled across the pages, a frantic scrawl that grew increasingly chaotic, as if penned under immense psychic pressure. Yet, the Whites’ symbols scattered within the chaos stood out like beacons, guiding his way.

He managed to decipher a portion:

*[Project ME isn't about creation. It's about awakening.]

*[Arcana has always existed. It was merely... locked.]

*[The key to the lock is bloodline. The guardians of the lock are...]

The thread snapped there. The next page had been torn out, hastily, leaving jagged edges.

Santali leaned back, eyes closed. Fragments swirled—slowly cohering into a faint, unsettling shape.

If Crimson Tide's words held truth, then Arcana wasn't a mutation, but an inherited trait. A trait that had been intentionally suppressed. The global limit of ten Arcanists wasn't a natural law—it was a cage.

Who held the key to that cage? And to what end?

And the most critical question——

Nyxl… what was her role in this design?

[A key].

The metaphor was perilously fluid. A key does not merely open（or be used by the door）—it invites. It can be the means of entry, or become the passage through which something else passes. Once turned in the lock… what steps across the threshold? And what—or who—is left on the other side?

He opened his eyes. His gaze drifted across the basement to where X was inspecting the final batch of gear. Backlit by the work lamp, she was a study in focus—her crimson hair a flame burning quietly in the dim, her fingers moving over the firearm with stable, practiced certainty. The soft, precise clicks of metal components engaging echoed in the silence, a rhythmic countdown.

——He remembered those hands smaller, fumbling with some childish, the clinging, tender names，sugar-dusted treat. But the memory was gauzy, distant. What felt real now was the line of light tracing her neck, the subtle shift of her shoulder blades beneath the tactical fabric—a beauty that was precise, and brimming with latent power.

Dangerous.The word rested on his tongue, silent and potent.

The lamp flickered.

X turned her head, her gaze meeting his across the dimness. No warmth, no question—just pure assessment, as if gauging a tool, or a potential threat.

Santali held her gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting into a calibrated smile—gentle, unassuming.

The air thickened. From somewhere deep in the building came the monotonous drip of a pipe.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Like a heartbeat. Or a slow, steady seepage.

He rose and crossed to her.