The team executed the cleanup with ruthless efficiency.
Bodies were dragged away from the road and dumped into the darkness like discarded debris. Blood was washed away with water and dirt. Weapons and vehicles were seized.
"Boss," one of the soldiers asked, voice tight, "what about the cars and guns?"
"Take everything back," Marcus Holt replied.
His voice was steady—but Valentina noticed it.
A faint instability beneath the calm.
Marcus stepped onto the bus.
The black combat uniform clung to him, outlining a body forged through endless combat—lean muscle, powerful lines, restrained violence coiled beneath the surface. His tactical boots struck the steps heavily, each sound grounding, commanding.
The moment he appeared, panic inside the bus eased.
He spoke clearly.
"We'll escort you to the Northern Border Passenger Station. From now on, you're safe."
Relief spread like a wave.
Marcus turned to leave, reaching for the driver's seat—
"Boss!"
Hands grabbed his arm.
"You just came out of a Contamination Zone!"
"Your mental trauma hasn't healed!"
"Don't push yourself—we'll drive!"
Marcus frowned.
"It's fine."
But when he shifted his weight—
His vision blurred.
His body swayed.
Just slightly.
But Valentina saw it.
And so did everyone else.
Before anyone could react—
"Don't move."
Her voice cut through the noise.
Calm. Cold. Absolute.
Valentina stepped forward, eyes locked onto Marcus.
"Your mental fluctuations are violent," she said quietly.
"You need Mental Guidance. Now."
The soldiers froze.
"…A Guide?"
"Wait—she's a Guide?!"
"A real one?!"
Shock. Disbelief. Then raw, desperate hope.
Marcus stiffened.
"No," he said immediately.
He hated this.
Hated anyone touching his mental world.
"Boss!"
"Are you insane?!"
"You'll go berserk!"
He didn't respond.
He was about to refuse again—
When something slammed into him.
A presence.
Cold. Direct. Uninvited.
Before he could block it—
Her mental force tore into his landscape.
---
Valentina's vision shifted violently.
The world turned—
And opened.
She stood in Marcus Holt's mental landscape.
A vast grassland.
But ruined.
Green bled into sickly yellow. The earth was cracked, cratered, torn apart. Jagged stone jutted out like exposed bone.
This place had been broken.
The moment she stepped forward—
The land revolted.
A sandstorm exploded into existence.
Yellow dust roared like a living thing, tearing across the grassland, choking, shredding.
Rejection.
Pure, instinctive rejection.
Valentina took another step.
The storm intensified.
Violent. Furious.
She stepped back.
The storm weakened.
So this was his limit.
A boundary drawn in pain.
Valentina smiled faintly.
She had never been good at obeying boundaries.
She lifted her hand.
Click.
Something deep inside her answered.
The air behind her split—
And the sea surged in.
Endless water crashed forward, swallowing the sandstorm. Yellow grit tried to resist, clawing back—but it was already fractured.
She felt it instantly.
He was barely holding on.
Strong shell.
Shattered core.
A sound echoed through the space.
A suppressed, unwilling groan.
Marcus was resisting her with everything he had.
Even now.
Valentina didn't rush.
She stood in the seawater, letting it press forward slowly, relentlessly. Grain by grain, the sand dissolved.
Even as an S-Class Sentinel, his resistance was terrifying.
But it was exhausted.
The storm collapsed.
The sea receded.
The land fell silent.
Valentina moved forward.
She searched the broken grassland.
Finding a spirit body here wouldn't be easy—
Something touched her palm.
Soft.
Warm.
A small creature rested there.
Tentacled. Slender. Alive.
Not an octopus—but close.
Each tendril bore tiny yellow markings, faintly glowing.
Valentina inhaled sharply.
Her spirit body.
She had summoned it again and again before.
Nothing.
And now—here it was.
As if sensing her intent, it slipped from her hand and shot forward.
Valentina followed.
Behind a twisted tree, she found him.
A black panther.
Small.
Curled tight, body tense, breathing uneven.
When Valentina approached, it snapped upright instantly—back arched, fangs bared, aggression burning in its eyes.
It didn't realize how small it had become.
How fragile.
It was all instinct.
All pride.
"Hold him," Valentina said softly.
The tentacled spirit surged forward.
Soft tendrils snapped out—wrapping, coiling, restraining.
The panther struggled.
But it was useless.
The feedback flooded Valentina's senses.
So soft.
So smooth.
So slippery.
She froze for half a second.
Spirit bodies… felt.
They experienced.
They reflected their owner.
Valentina stepped forward and lifted the panther into her arms.
It was warm.
Tense.
Alive.
At that exact moment—
Marcus Holt gasped.
His body jerked violently.
"What happened?!"
"Boss?!"
"Something's wrong!"
The soldiers panicked.
One whispered urgently, "I've seen Mental Guidance before—there's preparation, incense, music—this isn't—"
Another went pale.
"Is this even safe?!"
They paced helplessly.
Marcus clenched his fists so hard his gloves creaked.
His breathing turned ragged.
He had undergone Mental Guidance once before.
Controlled.
Distant.
Clinical.
This—
This was nothing like that.
He could feel it.
Every sensation.
His spirit body was bound tightly—soft suction-like pressure holding him in place, curling around him, refusing to let go.
Not pain.
Something worse.
Overwhelming awareness.
Then—
A hand.
Warm.
Gentle.
Fingers slid through fur, slow and deliberate.
Marcus's breath hitched.
His knees almost buckled.
He heard her voice—not through sound, but directly inside him.
Low.
Measured.
Curious.
"Mm…"
A pause.
"It really is soft."
Her fingers pressed slightly.
"So smooth."
Another slow stroke.
"So slippery."
Marcus's throat worked.
His control shattered like glass.
--