Time seemed to congeal in this forgotten corner of the world.
The Black Doctor's clinic lay buried deep inside a labyrinth of abandoned pipes. Calling it a "clinic" was almost generous—this place was a nest wrapped in metal and shadow.
The air was forever layered with odors: biting disinfectant as the surface mask; beneath it, a heavy stink of machine oil; and deeper still, a cloying sweetness threaded with rot—like artificial tissue slowly swelling inside culture fluid, or old blood and Ether solution fermenting together.
Dim emerald emergency lights were the only illumination. They were set into rusted seams of piping and hollows in arched walls. The damp air refracted their glow, throwing wavering, distorted shadows across the floor—shadows that looked like living things creeping forward.
Qianye stepped through the corridor, shoes landing on ground that was wet, slick, and faintly sticky. His footsteps rang out in the hollow metal passage, magnified for an instant—then swallowed by the weight of silence.
He moved with practiced familiarity, weaving past corners piled with discarded parts and unmarked containers, until he reached a thick iron door with no sign—one that blended almost perfectly into its surroundings.
He pushed it open.
Inside was worse.
The space was far larger than it appeared from outside. Instrument panels flickered with dim status lights, and machinery hummed low and steady. A surgical table gleamed with cold reflections. On a nearby cart, scalpels and clamps had been polished to a mirror shine—beautiful, and deeply ominous.
The Black Doctor stood with her back to him, facing a massive cylindrical tank filled with luminous green fluid. Within the liquid, a vague shadow drifted slowly, as if something inside was breathing.
She still wore that spotless white coat. Under the green lighting, it looked even cleaner—and far more sinister.
At the sound of Qianye's approach, she turned.
Her rimless glasses caught the light from a nearby control panel, obscuring her eyes. Only the arc of her habitual half-lidded smile was visible. But today, that smile felt different—tight with an almost volcanic excitement, as if something inside her was about to erupt.
"You came, Qianye," she said softly. "You still came…"
"Teacher," Qianye asked, voice steady but guarded, "why did you call me here this time?"
"For what?" The Black Doctor rolled the question on her tongue, lips briefly wetting as though she were a serpent savoring a meal. Her smile deepened.
She didn't bother with pleasantries. Instead, she stepped aside and gestured toward the enormous tank—and the pitch-black, newly opened hidden door behind it.
"Come and look," she murmured. "My dear student. Look at what your teacher prepared for you."
Beyond the door wasn't a cramped back room. It was a descending corridor flooded with bright, harsh light. A stronger smell surged up—culture fluid mixed with metal coolant, thick enough to taste.
Qianye hesitated, then approached the threshold and looked down.
What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
A vast underground chamber had been carved out by human hands.
In rows—neat, aligned like factory products—stood dozens of… "people."
They all shared almost the same young female appearance: streamlined proportions, bodies wrapped in synthetic combat suits, faces smooth and lifelike. But their eyes were empty—hollow dolls under stark white lamps, motionless and without any hint of living will.
Across their chests or foreheads, faint markings like circuit traces glimmered in a slow rhythm.
"This is…" Qianye's throat went dry. "You… broke your promise?"
"No, Qianye," the Black Doctor replied, voice bright with a pride she didn't even try to hide. "She agreed to this too. And that one—Cuiji, that lump of… soldier—after you were put on the wanted list, she was furious. She's been itching to take revenge on them."
"She resisted at first," the Black Doctor continued, almost laughing with delight, "but now? The speed at which she's producing 'sisters' is beyond even my expectations…"
She stepped beside him, opening her arms as though to embrace the entire chamber.
"Qianye! Look! These new creations—creations your teacher forged with her own hands!"
"Using those materials, the legacy data I decoded from the Silver Army… and a little innovation." Her voice rose, intoxicating, persuasive. "Look at them. Perfect foundations."
She turned to him, and behind her lenses the heat of her gaze nearly burned.
"All you have to do is say yes, my child. Just a little more strength from you—just a nod. Teacher and student together, and we'll have an inexhaustible army—absolutely loyal, forever."
Her words came faster, more urgent, like a spell.
"Think about it: those who've benefited from you, those who hate the filth of New Eridu with every fiber of their being—like that scavenger with hatred carved into her bones, Zoe. She's already serving as the legion's sniper instructor!"
"And there will be more. We'll find them. We'll take them in."
"Give it time, and this power will grow until it can cleanse all of New Eridu's rot and darkness! No one will be able to threaten you again. We will build a new order—ours. For you, I'd do anything!"
"Enough." Qianye stumbled back as if pricked by invisible needles. His face flashed with disbelief—then was washed over by anger and a cold edge of fear.
He pointed at the silent figures below, voice trembling with emotion.
"Teacher, have you lost your mind?! These are lives—human lives! Not parts to be assembled, consumed, and thrown away like tools!"
"I save people because I want more people to live—so they can have their own lives. Not so they can become puppets of war."
"I never wanted to overthrow New Eridu. I never wanted to stomp on other people's lives with blood and violence!"
He drew a sharp breath, forcing himself to steady his voice.
"Yes, I'm unhappy with some of Mayor Mei Fleur's decisions. Some policies are cold. Some methods aren't clean. But I have to admit the truth: under her governance, New Eridu has maintained basic order and function under the threat of the Hollows."
"Countless ordinary people survive because this system still stands. If you unleash the storm you're talking about—if the city's structure collapses—how many innocents will lose their homes, their food, their lives to the chaos that follows?"
"You call that salvation? That's destruction. That's the most extreme form of selfishness."
The Black Doctor's smile froze, cracking like ice.
The feverish light in her eyes drained away, replaced by a raw, deep pain—like someone had denied her with the cruelty of intimacy.
Tears surged without warning, filling her eyes and spilling down pale cheeks, darkening her immaculate white coat where they fell.
"Destruction… selfishness…?" she whispered, voice breaking.
She stepped forward abruptly—no longer a composed scientist, but a drowning woman. She grabbed Qianye's arm, fingers digging in so hard her nails nearly pierced through fabric into flesh.
"I did all of this to protect you, Qianye!"
She looked up at him through tears, her voice shaking violently.
"Have you forgotten Bringer? That hypocritical 'Hero Who Conquered the Hollow'? How he issued the warrant and hunted you like an animal?"
"How they dragged you into that lightless underground prison full of despair?!"
"Every time I close my eyes, I see you covered in wounds, chained up—"
Her body trembled with sobs. Everything cold and calculating about her collapsed, leaving only a woman devoured by fear and a love warped into obsession.
"I can't let it happen again. Not once. I can't endure even the possibility of losing you."
"I need power—enough power to crush every threat before it reaches you. Enough power to ensure no one can ever hurt you again."
"Even if…" Her voice hitched. "Even if I have to fall into the abyss. Even if I have to carry ten thousand sins."
She pressed her forehead against his arm. Burning tears soaked into his sleeve.
Qianye went rigid.
He had rarely—almost never—seen his teacher like this: so fragile, so desperate, so utterly unguarded. Her tears and shaking pleas struck harder than any command ever could. His nature was soft; he couldn't bear the people he cared about breaking in front of him.
The fury and logic he'd built up crashed into ice water, leaving only helpless confusion and a violent inner struggle.
"Teacher… don't…" he whispered, trying to pull away, though the motion lacked any real strength. "I… I can't agree with this. This isn't right…"
In the end, it was as if his entire body had run out of fuel. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, heavy with something close to despair.
He avoided her gaze—because it felt like it could scorch his soul.
"…I need time," he said hoarsely. "I need to… think."
He turned and fled, footsteps stumbling, echoing wildly down the metal corridor before vanishing beyond the door.
The clinic fell silent again. Only the low hum of machines remained.
The Black Doctor slowly straightened.
The trembling, tear-streaked expression washed off her face like a tide receding. With calm, elegant precision, she wiped away the last tear tracks with her fingertips.
A faint smile rose—subtle, planned, and colder than steel.
She hadn't gotten his approval. But his hesitation—his silence—his failure to refuse with absolute finality…
To her, that was enough.
A crack where a dark seed could live.
As long as he didn't stand up and stop her openly, the road of "power" and "protection" could continue—until turning back became impossible.
She faced the quiet ranks of the underground legion and hummed a tuneless, eerie melody. The sound looped through the chamber of instruments, glowing tanks, and sweet-rotten air, turning the place into something that felt less like a laboratory and more like a manufactured abyss.
"…Come to think of it," she murmured, stopping mid-hum, speaking to herself, "they should have a name."
"'Silver Army' belongs to the past."
She paused, then smiled.
"How about… Night Phantoms?"
A voice answered from deeper shadow.
"Oh. You're out."
A figure stepped forward—Cuiji, tall, arms folded. Her eyes were complicated as they lingered on the corridor Qianye had fled through, before turning toward the Black Doctor.
"Not bad," the Black Doctor said, amused. "Though I was going to name them myself."
"My sisters," Cuiji said flatly, "can only be named by him—or by me."
Then she added, gaze hard and warning, "But I'll listen to your suggestion. Only because you're his teacher. Understand?"
The Black Doctor didn't react to the open hostility. She simply rested a finger on her chin, thinking.
"Then… Midnight Lords," she said lightly. "How's that?"
Cuiji didn't answer.
A hospital room with floor-to-ceiling windows, flooded with bright sunlight. Beyond the glass, the city's central garden looked lush and calm. Inside, soft off-white walls and the scent of lilies tried to smother the ever-present bite of disinfectant.
Justin Bringer lay on a wide white bed, his once-bulky frame wrapped in thick layers of bandage. He looked heavy, weakened, reduced to a wounded man rather than the "Conqueror of the Hollow."
His face was pale, lips cracked, blond hair dull and messy against his forehead. The heroic aura that newspapers worshipped had vanished. What remained was someone who had crawled back from the edge of death.
Sarah sat in the visitor's chair beside the bed.
She wore a fitted dark business suit, black hair pinned neatly back to reveal a clean jawline and elegant throat. One hand wore a delicate black glove; the other rested on her knee, nails painted a deep, dried-blood red. Her legs crossed gracefully. The sharp toe of her heel tapped the floor with a faint, patient rhythm.
"Look at you, Bringer—Commissioner," she said, lips curving with open mockery. Her green eyes were icy under the sunlight.
"How… pitiful. Those articles painting you as a blood-soaked hero who 'lost with honor' can't really hide the fact that you nearly got sent home in a body bag."
Bringer forced a rough snort and tried to shift—only to pull his wound. Pain knifed through him. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.
"Stop gloating, Sarah," he rasped, anger pressed under weakness.
"At least this state buys me time. Those old vultures who want to kick me out can't find a clean excuse yet. A 'hero' in a hospital bed is more useful than a failure in the morgue."
His eyes sharpened on her—less arrogant than before, more practical, almost urgent.
"But we don't have much time. Their patience is limited. This mess is big, and they're already hunting my replacement."
He drew a breath like it cost him something.
"The Ghoul retrieval plan is completely dead. We don't even know if it's in HAND's hands or hidden somewhere else."
"The Saint's 'appearance' has silenced the doubters for now—those idiots downstairs won't dare bark—but it also means we can't make any visible moves soon. One wrong ripple and we drown."
He stared at Sarah, as if trying to pry a plan out of her calm.
"Don't dance around it. Tell me what you're doing. We can't sit here and wait to die."
Sarah smiled—perfect, masklike.
She adjusted her glove as if she had all the time in the world.
"Don't rush, my dear 'colleague.'"
Her voice was gentle, and cold.
"If New Eridu's inner city is locked in stalemate—if every faction's eyes are fixed here, and even a breeze could bring a landslide—then why not… shift our gaze to places the sun forgets?"
A flash of dangerous clarity flickered in her eyes.
"The Outer Ring."
At that same moment—far beyond the city barrier, in the neglected wasteland of the Outer Ring—sand and wind ruled everything. Coarse grit hammered makeshift homes built from scrap metal and warped boards, filling the air with endless shhh, shhh.
The world stank of dust, cheap fuel, and faint sweetness from Ether contamination drifting from distant Hollows.
In a particularly remote corner formed by wrecked vehicles and rusted shipping containers, Lucius—second-in-command of the Triumphers—hugged a cracked wall like a rat.
He glanced left and right constantly, checking for shadows. Only then did he lean into a bulky encrypted communicator and speak in a hurried, low voice.
"…Yes. The plan stays the same. Pompey's an old fossil. His head's full of outdated 'morality' and 'boss responsibility.' He doesn't understand real power or growth. He's blocking too many people's road."
"Don't worry. As long as your inner-city corporations deliver the tech and weapon support—and you help open that sealed route with the highest-profit smuggling stream—the boss seat will be mine soon enough…"
He let out a smug chuckle, venom in every syllable.
"That old idiot's even investigating my contact with you. He's begging to die…"
He kept talking—ambition, contempt, details of the deal: technical support, weapons shipments, the promised smuggling channel.
He never noticed that just on the other side of the wall stood a figure like a steel tower.
Pompey—the "old fool" Lucius spit on—stood motionless, listening to every word.
His bronzed face was carved by wind, battle, and time. His eyes—eyes that had seen countless deaths, betrayals, and bargains—were ice now, sharp enough to pierce walls and pin a soul.
Every syllable Lucius murmured was a poisoned blade driven into Pompey's chest.
Not long ago, the mercenary Pokona had casually warned him during a job handoff:
"Boss… Lucius has been getting awfully close to some inner-city types. I heard he's got ideas about the Burning Crystal Fire Lake."
Pompey hadn't fully believed it then. He'd dismissed it as a subordinate's private scheming.
But now, the warning and the betrayal matched perfectly, slamming reality down in front of him.
Heat surged into Pompey's skull. His temples throbbed. His scarred, callused right hand clenched hard enough for tendons to creak, muscles knotting, veins rising like living cords under skin.
He could almost hear his blood roaring in his ears—an animal urge to smash through the wall, seize Lucius by the throat, and demand to know why.
Why betray brothers who bled together?
Why sell out the Outer Ring they'd fought to protect?
Footsteps shifted. On the communicator, Lucius seemed to finish his call, chuckling as he moved away from the wall to leave.
Pompey—like a boulder in shadow—didn't move.
Not until Lucius's steps vanished into the sand-wind did Pompey open his eyes again.
The rage had been forced down. What replaced it was worse: a deep, brutal calm—like permafrost, like the edge of a blade forged again and again.
He didn't explode. He didn't purge the traitor immediately.
He loosened his fist. Four crescent blood marks lingered in his palm.
He was an overlord. The Triumphers' leader. The backbone of countless desperate lives in the Old Oilfield Zone. Rage and impulse didn't solve problems—they walked straight into traps.
He remembered Lucius's recent oddities: frequent solo trips, distracted handling of business, evasive eyes whenever inner-city connections were mentioned.
There had been signs. He'd ignored them.
And then another chill climbed up his spine—his recent unexplained fatigue, the occasional cough…
Was that, too, part of Lucius's work?
Pompey's breathing steadied.
He turned and vanished into the broken shadows between scrap cars, each step silent, heavy with purpose.
Inside his wide chest, an oath hardened into steel.
Lucius… you think your scheme is airtight?
You think partnering with inner-city hyenas makes you fit to replace me—fit to turn the Outer Ring into a feeding ground?
You'll see.
You'll watch your "perfect play" collapse at the moment you feel most triumphant.
You—and your hidden masters—will be ground into dust by absolute force.
And the one who writes the ending…
…will be me.
The wind howled on, swallowing his retreating figure in sand.
But in the air, something had changed.
A blood-scented pressure—like a storm about to break—began to spread.
And the Outer Ring, stirred by betrayal heard through a wall, was sliding toward a disaster that would swallow everything.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
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Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 150)
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TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
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I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter222)
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Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 190
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
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From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass Volume2/5
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 215
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 200
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 154
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The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 115
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 67
Uma Musume: From Beginner 130
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 85
Uma Musume: I Want All 105
I Can Copy Unique Skills 100
Summoning an Evil God, but the 70
Supernatural Multiverse 90
My Harem Is Indescribable 85
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 90
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 68
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 81
Still playing traditional Honk 69
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 65
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Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 60
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 55
Transmigrated as Sukuna 61
Checking In in Demon Slayer 65
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 80
I Refuse to Become a Heroic 66
My Best Friend Into a Slime? 58
A Saiyan Stands Above Marvel 65
What Do You Mean by Using a Lab Mod to Be the Hero? 63
Tanya Starts from Re:Zero 59
Why did they assign me to Uma 55
MYGO Beauties 56
DanMachi: Emiya the Giant Hero 45
The Gacha Merchant Who Started 49
Honkai's Otherworld? Wait—Who Are You People?! 26
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