BREW

Ran left with his team. The elite Echo unit from Main HQ followed soon after.

Merry now stood alone in a town that no longer felt like a town—just a hollow scar on the map. Buildings half-warped, streetlights flickering unnaturally, stains no rain could wash away.

And the media had arrived.

They swarmed past barricades, their camera drones buzzing like flies over a corpse.

"Officer Merry! What exactly happened here that required deployment from the national military?" one reporter asked, microphone shoved forward.

She inhaled sharply. They notice the helicopters, but not the wreckage behind me. This media is really.....

"Earlier today, a terrorist group launched a coordinated assault," Merry said flatly. "The damage is extensive, but the local government, with national support, suppressed the threat."

Another journalist raised a hand. "What would terrorists gain by attacking a low-population town?"

Terrorists, huh? Merry glanced back at the ruin. Even I don't know if this town was really underpopulated or originally crowded. And if it did… did they still exist?

"Their motive is still under investigation. No further questions." She turned and walked toward her remaining personnel without waiting for a response.

At a secured Vanguard outpost near the perimeter, the surviving Lucid agents gathered. The debriefing room was dimly lit, quiet, sterile. Outside, the reality of what they'd faced still buzzed in the air—unclean, unstable.

Merry stood at the front, reviewing casualty projections. No list was complete. The Janitor didn't just kill; it removed.

On paper, the numbers said under three hundred casualties.

But Merry knew that was wrong.

This was a town inside a major metro district. There should've been thousands.

Many agents remembered fighting. Few remembered who. Some had gaps in their own histories—names fading, call signs lost. One soldier had to be reminded what division they served in.

The emotional toll was worse than the physical.

If she regrouped all personnel who could still function, she would barely form two or three teams—insufficient for Alterworld patrols, let alone defense.

Psychological treatment, she thought. Urgently. The Main HQ will approve it. They have to.

A senior officer from The Main HQ arrived during the debrief. He questioned her, comparing her field account to Commander Ran's. They didn't align perfectly.

She wasn't surprised. Subjectivity warped with exposure to high-tier anomalies. Memory, perception, even time itself bent differently for each survivor.

After the inquiries, the officer brought a locked case forward.

"As per Vanguard field protocol," he said, "cursed items retrieved in your jurisdiction are awarded to your branch."

He opened several the case. Seven containment pods glowed faintly under red sigils with white sand in it.

"Four Level-One, two Level-Two, and one Level-Three. The higher-grade item will undergo inspection before it's issued to this base."

Merry nodded. "Understood."

The level 2 cursed items could have been 3 but the crucifixion man didn't drop any cursed item since Merry cut it's destiny using the scissors.

She took the seals. She didn't feel victorious. She didn't feel anything.

After signing the records, the officer left without ceremony.

The ledger closed. The cost remained.

The Maharlika Vanguard had lost more in this operation than it had gained.

—Elsewhere, at Vanguard Main HQ

The elite Echo operatives touched down in silence. Thirty minutes late—and still, it felt too soon.

They were exhausted. Not from wounds—though those were many—but from resonance drain. The kind of metaphysical fatigue that Lucids only felt when reality refused to hold together.

They'd faced Level 3 Nightmares before—even a Level 4 once—but those had always been in Alterworld zones. Expected. Contained.

This?

This had been worse.

The Janitor had no classification. No prior record. No precedent.

And yet some in command had downplayed the threat—opposing full deployment of Echo teams, citing "resource risk."

That decision left local branches shattered.

Inside the war room, National Sentinel Allan sifted through a flood of incident reports, sleepless and angry. He'd pushed for full mobilization. He'd known the risks.

They hadn't listened.

As he sorted documents, one file slipped to the floor. He picked it up idly.

"Fissure survivor found… 'Tuesday'…" he read aloud.

His eyes narrowed.

"A survivor, huh?"

He placed the file aside gently—then reached for the secure line.

"Trace the origin. And prepare containment. Anyone who survived that—might be more than we thought."