The sound of metal cutting echoed from the ventilation ducts on P2.
Allen's right hand went to his waist.
There was no gun there. He wasn't a soldier.
Shadow perception instantly compressed inward, locking onto the aluminum exhaust duct above his head.
The metal louvers slammed into the concrete floor.
A mutated gray rat, sliced in half, fell to the ground.
The remaining dark silver light patterns on the cut surface were evaporating.
This wasn't a physical intrusion.
This was a targeted projection of spatial aftershocks.
She had sliced through the Rust Tide's floor 370 kilometers away, casually creating a tiny fissure above his head.
A pure display of force.
The red light on the management panel turned half of the underground parking garage blood-red.
The Rust Tide's structural integrity plummeted to 21%.
The system rating dropped from C to F.
Spatial scars left by six fissures pierced through three floors; the laws of physics collapsed in these areas.
In the fourth-floor corridor, the direction of gravity randomly shifted by ninety degrees. The C-level aberration had barely stepped into the corridor when it was torn apart by the horizontal gravitational pull and slammed against the wall.
Patrol routes were completely disrupted, creating a defensive vacuum.
The repair plan was listed on the holographic projection.
Structural Reconstruction: 50,000 BP.
Spatial Anchoring Patch: 30,000 BP.
Total: 80,000.
Current BP Balance: 21,000.
The numbers hovered in the air.
Allen stared at the string of green characters. The numbers didn't increase just because he stared at them.
A gap of 59,000.
It would take at least four days for the damage to regenerate naturally.
In four days, the defensive gap in the Rust Tide would be enough for GWA's clearing forces to advance unimpeded.
Jason stood up from the weapon crate.
His tactical boots crushed half of a Gray Rat's skeleton.
"Boss. The nighttime maintenance window for the Brooklyn Ruins can be closed."
Allen's fingers hovered above the virtual keyboard.
The Black Serpent and smaller guilds' entry times were strictly limited to daytime.
The twelve hours at night are a dormant period for the network's intelligence to optimize monster AI and reset traps.
If it's open 24/7, BP production will double.
The cost is equally clear.
Without a maintenance window, monster attack patterns will degenerate into mechanical repetition.
Trap triggers will malfunction due to excessive wear.
The dungeon's rules will become less binding, and the maiming and death rates for adventurers will skyrocket.
Reputation will collapse, and long-term profits will be halved.
"Open. 24/7." Allen entered the command.
"Notify the forum. Ticket prices reduced by 30%." Lina's crescent dagger twirled halfway between her fingers.
The hilt tapped against the heel of her hand.
"Are you running a promotion?"
"I'm trying to save myself." Lina's dagger stopped in mid-air.
She looked at the command confirmation box that popped up on the holographic projection.
Individual visitors will definitely scramble for seats in the cold wind to get discounted tickets.
Using greed to fill the gaps in defense.
Command issued.
The pinned announcement on the DeepRift forum refreshed.
3:00 AM.
Outside an abandoned warehouse in the Brooklyn ruins, twenty-seven Awakened stood in the cold wind.
Searchlight beams sliced through the night.
The BP production curve stretched into a steep upward line on the chart.
21,000. 25,000. 30,000.
Allen didn't look at the fluctuating numbers.
He dragged the surveillance footage from the fourth level of the Rust Tide back to its starting point and slowed down the playback.
The moment Elena severed the Ghost Wolf.
The arc of the Watcher's greatsword striking the ceiling.
The residual energy signature in the air as the rift closed.
The progress bar reached 3 minutes and 14 seconds.
Elena stood in the center of the core corridor.
She didn't directly attack the metal door of the core chamber.
She paused for four seconds, looked up at the ceiling, and then turned to face the Abyss Watcher bursting from the ground.
In the actual combat of an A-rank assassin, a four-second pause is tantamount to handing your neck to your opponent.
What was she looking at? Allen pulled up a structural scan of the core corridor ceiling and activated his perspective mode.
Layer by layer, the internal structure of the concrete was peeled away.
Directly above Elena's gaze, two centimeters below the surface, was a dark silver dot of light.
The dot pulsated slowly.
Unlike the reconnaissance scar she left at Fort Coffin.
This mark was alive.
A rift anchor point.
Once remotely activated, she could instantly tear open a spatial passage to the Rust Tide's core chamber, anytime, anywhere.
The raid wasn't about destroying the Rust Tide.
It was about planting this backdoor bomb outside the core chamber door.
Allen's hand rested on the edge of the holographic projection.
"Jason." Jason drew his pistol from his waist and chambered a round.
"Go to the fourth level of the Rust Tide's core corridor."
"There's a silver mark on the ceiling. Secure it with the spatial anchoring module. Now." Jason turned and walked towards the teleportation array.
Before stepping into the circle, he glanced back at his boss standing before the holographic projection.
Thirty-six hours without sleep. The ordinary people's backs remained ramrod straight.
The frequency of their fingers tapping the keyboard was impeccable.
Jason pulled the safety on his gun.
Thirty-six hours.
The emergency lights on P2 had their batteries replaced twice.
VictorStone's elite team, rotating in three shifts, filled every room in the Brooklyn Ruins.
The BP assembly line was running at full power.
The repair progress bar advanced millimeter by millimeter.
Twenty-eight hours.
The structural integrity of the rust tide had climbed back to 67%.
The core chamber's security rating had returned to critical levels.
The fissure anchor point was firmly locked by three layers of spatial anchoring modules, the dark silver pulsation compressed into a straight line.
A dark green rounded rectangle popped up in the center of the screen.
Network awareness.
"Architect. Anchor point investigation complete."
"One similar marker found on level 12 of Coffin Fortress and room 80 of the Brooklyn Ruins."
"Timestamp analysis and comparison: Implantation time three days ago. Elena's initial reconnaissance phase." Three New York underground cities.
Three physical backdoors leading directly to the core.
All three bases were planted with time bombs.
The deployment of the spatial anchoring modules required a massive amount of BP, draining the recently replenished funds once again.
The thirty-fourth hour.
The phone vibrated on the concrete floor, the plastic casing screeching against the ground.
Caller ID: Hawke.
Allen stared at the screen. The words "Founder" on the PDF roster flashed on his retina.
He answered. He put it on speakerphone.
"Your dungeon has been invaded by an A-level attacker." Hawke's voice was flat, there was no classical music in the background.
"I know."
"Elena Graves wasn't sent by me."
Allen didn't reply.
Hawk created the Cleansers, and now he's calling to distance himself.
Either it's a ruse, or there's internal strife.
"The Cleansers split two months ago." Hawke's speech was a beat faster than usual.
"One faction supports controlled detonation. Using precise methods to deal with the awakened cores, minimizing collateral damage."
"The other faction advocates complete purge. Detonating all twenty-seven cores simultaneously, regardless of cost, to completely eliminate the variable."
"Which faction does Elena belong to?"
"Complete purge. She broke away from my chain of command. Now she takes orders from someone else in Geneva." Allen's back lifted from the support column.
"You created the Purgers. And now you're telling me you can't control your own organization." Only a faint static came from the other end of the line.
"I created an emergency mechanism for dealing with out-of-control cores." Hawke's enunciation became more forceful.
"Three years ago, the scope of the program was expanded. I bear responsibility. But I didn't issue that final order." Allen pulled up a screenshot of a file on his USB drive.
"You signed off on authorizing the manufacture of the stabilizer."
"I signed off on authorizing the manufacture of the stabilizer." Hawke didn't deny it. "I didn't modify the stabilizer into a detonator." A pause.
A second of silence.
"The person who modified it was Elena Graves." The stabilizers and accelerators had identical physical structures; the only difference lay in their core programming.
Using her Rift Manipulation micromanagement skills, Elena forcibly rewrote twenty-seven of the ninety-three normally functioning stabilizers into detonators.
The time span covered the past fourteen months.
"Allen," Hawke's voice lowered slightly.
"Three people within the Cleanser disagree with the complete cleansing plan."
"They want to contact you."
"Who?"
"I can't say over the phone. They will contact you through methods you can identify." The call ended.
The dial tone echoed in the empty parking lot.
Allen tossed his phone onto his lap.
The screen's faint light went out.
In the lower right corner of the management panel, the red envelope icon representing a forum private message flickered.
Click. Expand.
Sender ID: #067_Elena.
The message contained only one sentence.
"Architect, I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to surrender."