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That octagonal symbol, composed of red and white, was like a brand, deeply etched into the mottled concrete wall.
The wind and frost of time had eroded its colors, and the collapse of the wall had torn its integrity, but that Umbrella-shaped pattern, filled with ominous implications, still emitted a bone-chilling cold under the dim sky.
This name, like a cursed syllable, echoed in the minds of the three simultaneously.
Umbrella
The muscles on Bruce MacWeen's face tightened instantly, and the slight relaxation he had felt earlier because the mission was nearing its end vanished completely.
His blue eyes, which always carried a hint of flippancy, were now filled with gravity.
He slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, which condensed into a cloud of white mist in the cold air, his voice as dry as rusted gears.
"Shit."
This wasn't some newly built secret base.
This was an Umbrella graveyard, a devil's den that should have been completely forgotten by history, burying countless sins and lost souls.
Morpheus D. Duval, that crazy guy; he didn't start from scratch here. He was just a grave robber who had inherited the devil's legacy.
Phoenix Bell's breathing hitched slightly.
She silently switched the safety of her submachine gun, which she had just turned off, back on.
Her gaze became sharper than ever before, and every muscle entered a state ready to explode at any moment.
Only Noah remained standing where he was, his expression unchanged.
His gaze moved away from the Umbrella logo and turned toward the deeper parts of the ruins.
"At the end of the twentieth century, the Umbrella Corporation established more than double-digit secret Research Institutes worldwide," Noah's voice broke the dead silence.
"Most of them were destroyed or abandoned along with the company's downfall. But a few, because their locations were too remote or their records were deliberately destroyed, remain missing to this day."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the cloud-shrouded island before him.
"It seems we've found one of them."
"So, that bastard Morpheus didn't build a madman's playground here," Bruce interjected, his voice carrying a suppressed fury.
"He just found a ready-made one and restarted it. Those Stalkers, that ugly-as-Hell Tyrant... are they all'stock' from here?"
"Not entirely," Noah shook his head.
"Judging by the crude design of the T-091 Tyrant model, it's more like Morpheus performed secondary modifications based on Umbrella's original technology.
He might have acquired some core data, but his technology and philosophy are more... paranoid and flawed than Umbrella's.
Like a mediocre painter who gets a draft of a Renaissance masterpiece but uses his own clumsy techniques to scribble all over it, eventually creating a twisted and grotesque monstrosity."
"Whether he's an inheritor or a modifier," Phoenix Bell said coldly, her gaze scanning the surrounding shadows that might hide danger.
"Now, we're all on his turf. And he's more familiar with this place than we are."
This sentence made the atmosphere heavy once again.
Yes, Morpheus held an absolute home-field advantage.
He knew every passage, every room, and even every corner that might hide a lethal threat.
And they were like blind men stumbling into a labyrinth... Meanwhile, in the center of the island, inside a relatively intact building that towered like a black obelisk.
Morpheus D. Duval was walking through a long, cold metal corridor.
His pace was fast, but there was no hint of panic; instead, he carried the elegance and composure of someone returning to his own kingdom.
The hem of his white trench coat fluttered as he moved, like a pale flower blooming in a steel Hell.
Any trace of anger from the failure on the Spencer was no longer visible on his face.
In its place was a near-fanatical excitement.
That Oriental man... the image of Noah shattering a Stalker's internal organs with one punch and kicking away a T-091 Tyrant replayed repeatedly in his mind.
That wasn't a clumsy modification or a deformed power induced by drugs.
That was a perfect "art" that integrated power, speed, and skill.
A living work of art that he dreamed of but could never create.
Compared to that perfect work of art, the so-called collection on the Spencer was nothing but a pile of crudely made trash.
If that trash was destroyed, so be it.
He was even somewhat grateful to that man for helping him clear out those imperfect rejects.
Now, he had a new, greater goal.
He had to have him.
Study him, disassemble him, and then, using his genes as a blueprint, create a masterpiece that transcends God.
Morpheus licked his somewhat dry lips, a morbid light flashing in his eyes.
Soon, he reached the end of the corridor.
A heavy alloy door requiring dual iris and voiceprint verification blocked his path.
He leaned his face toward the scanner.
"Identification: Morpheus D. Duval."
"Permission Rank: Highest."
"Welcome back, Mr. Supervisor."
A cold electronic voice sounded, and the alloy door slid open silently to both sides, revealing a circular control room filled with a sense of future technology.
This was the true core of the island.
Morpheus walked straight to the main control console in the center and skillfully opened an independent, multi-layered encrypted communication channel.
Snowflakes flickered on the screen for a few seconds, and soon, the face of a politician filled with anxiety and shrewd calculation appeared.
It was none other than Drake C. Simmons.
"Mr. Morpheus, you've finally contacted me," Simmons said, visibly relieved to see Morpheus's figure.
"What on earth happened on the Spencer? Why was the operation suddenly terminated? Do you know you almost..."
"Shut up, politician," Morpheus interrupted him roughly, speaking in a condescending tone, "I've changed my mind."
His gaze was filled with contempt, as if looking at an ant.
"I have a new pursuit, a true, priceless work of art."
Simmons's face turned very ugly; he felt he had been played by this madman.
But as an old fox who had struggled in the field of power for many years, he immediately suppressed his anger and keenly captured the key information from Morpheus's words.
"Art?" Simmons narrowed his eyes. "I guess this work of art is related to those three 'rats' who sneaked onto your ship, right?"
"They are 'tigers'," Morpheus corrected, that morbid smile of someone appreciating art reappearing on his face.
"A perfect tiger in human skin. I must have him."
Simmons understood instantly.
He immediately threw out the bargaining chip he had already prepared.
"We can cooperate, Mr. Morpheus," his voice became full of temptation, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden that tempted Eve.
"You want that 'tiger', and I need an opportunity to return to the center of power. This incident is a perfect springboard."
"Go on," Morpheus became interested.
"It's simple; we need to put on a show." Simmons's speaking speed began to quicken, his brain working fast to clearly outline the entire plan.
"First, I will announce through my channels that you, Mr. Morpheus D. Duval, under my 'persuasion', have come to your senses and voluntarily abandoned this terrorist attack. You will go from an anti-human terrorist to a lost lamb that can be 'guided' and 'controlled'."
"Second, you need to deal with those three agents. Externally, I will attribute their deaths to the out-of-control biological weapons left by Umbrella on the island. No one will doubt it. After all, that's an abandoned devil's den; anything that happens there is reasonable."
"Then, you need to 'commit suicide out of guilt'." Simmons said this with a meaningful smile on his face.
"You will leave an unidentifiable charred corpse on the island as your 'remains'. And you personally will completely disappear from this world, moving from the light to the dark, becoming an ace that belongs only to me."
"Finally," Simmons emphasized his tone.
"I will personally lead a team to 'clean up' this island. Of course, before the cleanup, I will give you enough time to take everything you need. Then, I will detonate the self-destruct device Umbrella buried here years ago, wiping this island, along with all its secrets, from the map forever."
"This way," Simmons spread his hands, a look of certain victory on his face.
"I will become a national hero who quelled an international crisis and return to the Peak of power. And you, Mr. Morpheus, will get a brand-new identity, an absolutely safe backing, and a steady stream of funds to pursue your great 'art'. We each get what we need; it's a perfect deal."
Morpheus fell silent.
He had to admit that Simmons's plan was full of the cunning and malice characteristic of politicians, but it perfectly hit all his needs.
An environment that would allow him to escape global pursuit and conduct his research in peace.
An excuse to help him get that "tiger".
"What do you need me to do?" Morpheus asked.
"It's simple," Simmons's smile became even more radiant.
"Kill those three agents. Then, let the whole world believe you're dead."
"Deal," Morpheus slowly uttered those two words.
Communication ended.
Morpheus turned around and walked toward the other wall of the control room.
There was a whole observation window made of reinforced glass; outside the window were countless huge Cultivation Tanks filled with green nutrient solution.
In each tank was a twisted, deformed, unfinished "work" soaking.
His gaze swept over these failures, a hint of disgust appearing on his face.
He walked to a red console labeled "Emergency Release," raised his hand, and placed it on a huge lever.
"My dear children, my clumsy imitations..." His voice was low and full of drama.
"Although you are all defective products, now is the time for waste utilization."
"Go, go and tear them apart. Use your claws and fangs to clear the last bit of dust before my perfect work of art takes the stage."
He slammed the lever down!
"Vroom—!"
The piercing alarm instantly echoed through every corner of the entire island!
Countless red warning lights flashed frantically, and at the bottom of those huge Cultivation Tanks, the drainage valves opened simultaneously, the green nutrient solution pouring out like a waterfall.
The sound of glass breaking, metal cages being smashed open, and various non-human roars filled with hunger and tyranny came from underground.
Morpheus spread his arms, closed his eyes, and listened with a look of intoxication to this prelude of destruction he had personally conducted... "What is that sound?"
The piercing alarm broke the dead silence of the ruins, giving Bruce a sudden start.
Noah and Phoenix Bell also aimed their muzzles toward the direction of the sound almost simultaneously.
They soon found a relatively intact Security Room in these ruins.
The door was kicked open violently, and a thick smell of mold and dust rushed toward them.
The room wasn't large, containing a few dust-covered tables and chairs and a row of long-extinguished surveillance screens.
Phoenix Bell walked straight to a wall where a metal box was hanging.
She pried it open with a dagger; inside was a yellowed but fairly well-preserved facility map.
"It's a structural diagram of this place," she spread the map on the table and illuminated it with a Tactical Flashlight.
The map was complex, like a giant spider web, with lines of different colors marking the Living Area, Experimental Area, Storage Area, and... Core Control Area.
"We are here right now," Noah's finger pointed to a mark on the periphery of the map, "Security Room No. 3. And Morpheus is likely here."
His finger slowly moved to the very center of the map, the area highlighted in bright red—"Main Control Core."
"It seems our party isn't over yet," Bruce said in a self-deprecating tone while keeping a wary eye on the door.
"From here to the Main Control Core, we have to pass through at least two Experimental Areas and a Bio-waste Treatment Plant. I bet there will be plenty of surprises there."
Just then.
"Boom!!!"
An unprecedentedly huge impact sound came from directly above their heads!
The entire Security Room shook violently, dust from the ceiling fell in showers, and several precarious light tubes shattered instantly.
The sound didn't seem like an explosion; it was more like... something incredibly heavy had crashed through the floor and fallen from the upper level.
The three immediately exchanged looks and held their breath in unison.
The alarm outside had stopped at some point.
The world fell back into a deathly silence.
Only the heavy sound of footsteps echoed outside.
"Thump..."
"Thump..."
Every step caused the ground to vibrate slightly.
It was as if a moving small mountain was slowly approaching the Security Room where they were.
The three tacitly lowered their bodies and moved to the edge of the pushed-open door, forming a triangular attack formation.
Noah made a "quiet" gesture to Phoenix Bell and Bruce.
He gently pushed the door open to a tiny crack and then pressed his eye against it.
Outside the crack was the same dim and dilapidated corridor from before.
In the distance, a shadow so huge it was beyond imagination was slowly walking from the corner of the corridor.
Its height almost touched the four-meter-high ceiling of the corridor, reaching over three meters.
Its massive body filled the entire corridor, with a width of nearly two meters.
That wasn't a human, nor was it any kind of B.O.W. they had seen before.
It was a huge walking shadow condensed purely from darkness, oppression, and the breath of death...
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