He is the leader of the Tantric sect in Chagdu.

Chapter 118 Pilot, Torrential Rain

Grand Gift Pool - Depth 2

Hume's tree root system anchor point, central protocol area.

The silver-white walls have a metallic texture, giving off an unapproachable and cold feeling. As the "core area" controlling a singularity creation, the central hub of the Hume Tree, this place always maintains the highest level of security.

The foundation is well aware that the more people there are, the more likely things are to go wrong. Therefore, in addition to the highest-ranking person who holds the unique key, there are sixteen assistants who are stationed here. Each of them needs to undergo regular mind checks, their private lives are completely restricted, and they basically work in two shifts, day and night.

Within the entire organization—this is arguably one of the most inhumane positions.

"Road markers are lit, and navigation channels are clear."

The speaker was a man dressed in a standard white robe, who looked as rigid as a machine. "The landing point deviation of the Descent Protocol is within a controllable range. The spirit avatar is currently in good condition. The projection ascended smoothly and arrived at the designated area eleven minutes ago."

The man dressed as an assistant turned his head and looked calmly at the figure at the front, reporting mechanically, "The descent has been confirmed successful, but the signal is still unstable—that layer of gray matter is blocking the influence channel of the Hume Tree."

Observational conditions are quite limited.

In the center of this silvery-white hall, a transparent sphere suspended in the air is broadcasting the "descent" in real time. However, it is clear that the black and white ripples covering almost all angles, along with the dense noise, indicate severe interference.

In fact, if it weren't for the space-based strike that was coordinated with this operation, which weakened that gray power, even this tiny bit of footage wouldn't have been visible.

From another perspective, this is the first time in a month that the foundation has been able to observe the out-of-control scene in the suburbs through that "hostile sexuality".

"Tsk."

Standing directly in front of all the assistants was a tall, male figure. By standard human lifespan standards, he looked to be over fifty. His graying, shoulder-length hair was meticulously combed, revealing two long, pointed ears. His right ear was adorned with a row of brass studs, giving it a sophisticated look, which made him appear far younger than his appearance suggested.

—Elf.

Judging by appearance, an elf who looks to be about fifty years old is at least two or three hundred years old.

At that moment, the elf manager had a cigarette dangling from his mouth without a mouthpiece. Upon hearing the report from his assistant, he frowned and clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction, saying, "To still be able to see 360P quality in this day and age is a kind of childhood experience."

"I'm really getting older and older—"

Facing the monitoring screen, Monet narrowed his eyes, skillfully adjusting the metal-framed glasses that were resting on his ear with one hand. His tone wasn't particularly urgent. "Can't we find a way to overcome this?"

Another assistant standing beside him said helplessly, "Manager, this is the limit—we've done hundreds of adjustments and upgrades to the Hume Tree monitoring system this month, and you've personally handled quite a few of them."

The assistant shrugged, "It's really impossible."

"Of course I know it won't work," the old elf said gruffly, then strode towards the back of the hall. "But since the projection was successful—judging from what that old hag Olivia said, we're just waiting to pop the champagne, aren't we?"

He gave a fake yawn. "Then I'm going to catch up on my sleep. If anyone checks up on me, just tell them—I'm an old man over two hundred years old, so it's normal for me to be sleepy."

"Manager—"

The assistant was on the verge of tears, looking at the scene that could definitely be considered "illegal absence from duty," and shook his head in despair, but could only watch as the assistant walked away.

Asking him to block this great god is clearly putting him in a difficult position. Even if a member of the committee were to come here in person, it would be hard to say whether he could get a good look from this old elf.

Because the person in charge of creating singularities is often the "researcher" who is most familiar with the technology.

The designer of Monet's Singularity technology "Tree Topology Platform" and the chief engineer of the Singularity creation "Hume's Tree".

The tough guy who even has to censor photos ten times before putting them in classified files: He worked overtime for a whole month without pay because he had to outwit that layer of gray matter. Now he is clearly in a period of burnout. Even when he was urgently transferred, he was always thinking about slacking off.

Ten days ago, when the two taboos, the Worm and the Grey, appeared at the same time and made a big news story, the current governor of the Foundation, Olivia, rushed to the Lower City headquarters. All decision-makers with Level 4 authority and above held a meeting for a whole night. Later, with the participation of Upper City, a covert operation mission against Ω016 was formulated.

This is also the highest-level operation in half a century: the Foundation, with some kind of ambition, simultaneously mobilized a large amount of resources from the three singularities, and even went so far as to divert the originally fixed bottom quota.

The most exaggerated one is, of course, the furnace core.

"I've had a problem with them for a long time. Who was the idiot who came up with that 10% figure on a whim? 5% is more than enough—we might as well give our department a bigger quota instead of that much energy."

A weathered yet still lively voice rang in his ears, startling the assistant. He turned to see his superior, who had left his post, return to the central hall. "Chief Steward, why are you back again?"

'

'

The old elf's expression froze, and he stiffly lit another cigarette, gritting his teeth, "Those bastards, they blocked the door for me."

—It seems there are people at headquarters who don't like this guy either.

The assistant pretended to be clueless and started to play dumb. With nothing else to do, Monet could only focus his attention on the current situation: he frowned and looked at the blurry live broadcast of the arrival. The first-person perspective was that of the spirit projection, so the edge of the screen was a ring of orange-red flames, and each pixel that made up the flames was the size of a thumb.

"What can you tell from this?" Monet pointed to the image in the center of the projection screen. "That gray shadow floating in the sky, is that the taboo? How come it's so small—"

He pointed down to the edge of the painting, to the crowded, kneeling crowd.

"This huge, densely packed group of people... so even taboo subjects like to hold meetings?"

Unable to get a word in edgewise, the assistant could only silently watch the surveillance footage with their superior.

The shadow suspended in the air was frantically fleeing from the fire, seemingly only able to barely survive thanks to the protection of the gray mist—clearly, the battle was an overwhelming victory, and the enemy had no means to deal with an "eternally powerful Grand Inquisitor."

Even if he did have a way, the Foundation would cut off that path: those high-ranking old guys almost never make mistakes and rarely leave loopholes, so to this day, the Foundation's "special operations" still maintain a 100% success rate.

They were arrogant, but powerful enough.

"How pitiful—" Monet looked at the gray shadow compressed by the fire, and the increasingly thin gray in the picture, and shook his head with a sigh. "It must feel terrible to be targeted by a pervert. I can empathize with them a lot—those guys who are seriously insecure, they can't tolerate anything beyond their control."

"They hate new things and won't allow change; they cower like turtles, all because of that ridiculous word, this so-called 'existence.'"

The old elf squinted, letting out a cold snort from his nose, "Heh—"

"Hiss—" The assistant, who had clearly heard the whole thing, gasped. He was so worried that he hadn't punctured his eardrums, so he could only pretend that he hadn't heard anything.

—Holy crap, it exploded!

(Of course, it doesn't matter if the big boss mutters a few complaints in his heart.) The assistant shrank his neck.

—But we junior employees can't afford to listen to this stuff.—

Fortunately, after venting for a while, Monet finally calmed down—the tedious scenes of chasing and escaping, coupled with the torturous visual experience of pixelated graphics, easily made people feel irritable.

The old elf quickly lost interest in the cat-and-mouse game and changed the subject: "Who's sitting inside this machine?"

"A machine?" The assistant didn't react at first, until Monet pouted in dissatisfaction, then he suddenly realized that he meant "spiritual incarnation".

—He's clearly an old man, how come he's more trendy than the young people in the city?—

Although he secretly groaned, the assistant quickly and dutifully replied, "It was a specialist sent by headquarters. They haven't been in contact with us. We need to obtain the detailed information through other channels. If you need it, sir—I'll go find someone to get it right now."

"Hmm—" Monet didn't respond immediately, but showed a curious expression.

"It seems—this pilot isn't very skilled."

The old elf chuckled, his eyes narrowed. "The Grand Inquisitor's complete projection—that's far more powerful than this. He's only used the most basic attack techniques so far, and his instant-death strike based on mysticism suppression is even less skillful than that of a mere ordinary Fire Path Incliner. Where did this little fellow come from?"

He clicked his tongue in amazement, "To actually get such an opportunity for a spirit to descend, which old geezer's illegitimate son is he on the committee?"

—I can't listen to it again.

Sensing his boss's keen interest, the assistant quickly changed the subject with a blank expression, "I'll go find the information for you right now."

"Let's see how it goes, I have nothing else to do anyway." Monet chuckled twice. "I'm looking forward to it."

The outskirts of the city.

Fifteen minutes have passed since the intruders arrived.

For the foundation, the situation is excellent.

Inside the spirit avatar, an unknown pilot was observing the enemy's movements: flames were spreading along his trail, using the ash as fuel, relentlessly pursuing that petite silhouette—

"Gray—" The pilot knew that his words could not convey any information to the outside world. Pure spirits were the best insulating layer, and even mysterious mediums could hardly affect the internal consciousness.

So she silently recited this sealed "name" to her heart's content.

-Ash.

Gray lingered all around, countless tentacles emerging from the shadows, only to be evaporated and dispersed by the terrifying heat emanating from the furnace core—these bizarre and terrifying forms, in their normal state, were not powerful enough to penetrate the immortality of his current body. Thus, they appeared more harmless than ever before, allowing him to decisively blast away the "Source of All Things" in the enemy's territory.

-Ash.

Just as she had guessed: this "taboo" was not at her peak.

That's not entirely accurate.

—It should be said that he is much weaker than before he became "taboo".

The pilot thought to herself—this was classified information known to only a few people—more detailed information about "Ω016"—and much of the information in the current taboo list came from her own experience.

For the foundation, at least on the surface, no one knew the "taboo" better than her.

That's why she was chosen as a participant in this mission—and even played the most important role in it.

This was the result the pilot had fought hard for; she had been looking forward to this mission for a long time.

—Finally, my wish came true.

"call----"

She calmed the heartbeat of the furnace with deep breaths, driving her spiritual avatar to bring about a certain sensory resonance. Although she had never studied the fire path, an unusual heat still lingered on her chest—her turbid breaths were mixed with the pungent smell of sulfur and rust, which puzzled the pilot.

—The apprentice of fire, whose breathing is like having a fever of 40 degrees Celsius—does he really sleep well?

In a daze, she instinctively launched another "Red Liquid Ignition" at the location her senses had locked onto. Unfortunately, it only burned away a cloud of gray mist. The flames, like hyenas that had caught their prey, once again surrounded the other side of the fog gate. All the hunter who was driving all of this needed to do was hold his gun and wait for his prey to be exhausted.

Time stood in her way, and power flowed from the eternal answer core of that finally ignited heart: the pilot's level of understanding allowed her to comprehend its power better than most people, but when the engine throbbed, she still couldn't help but marvel: Singularity, no wonder it is a great creation that can support an entire civilization and even the world.

—Incredible.

The pilot who wields the flames possesses a kind of precognitive skill. Even though she is still inexperienced on her path to ascension, and even though she has never trod the path of fire before, the seemingly inexhaustible secret energy in her hands tells her that as long as the master of the power is willing, she can remain at her peak and burn the entire suburbs to ashes.

—For example, the group of yellow-clad people who knelt before the rebels.

The pilot's gaze fell forward, and she saw the figures covered in black earth: densely packed worshippers in devout postures, seemingly immersed in some kind of fanaticism and unable to extricate themselves.

Forbidden Containers

She silently narrowed her eyes, and at the same time, the flame in the spirit's pupils began to flicker. According to the [Taboo Containment Act], the identity and "alien" status of humans captured by forbidden forces are determined by the law, and the method of handling them is also determined by law.

To kill.

—Kill them?

The consciousness within the spirit body fell into deep thought.

She had killed people, or rather, she had killed many people. She never showed any pity for those filthy things that were unacceptable to others.

Everyone knows that in this black, barren land in the far suburbs, nothing healthy can grow—if the roots are rotten, the whole crop will rot.

Even so, pilots still harbor a strange sense of anticipation for the coins—like a child looking into an adult's closed palm, believing that a coin lollipop might appear inside.

It's a pure, almost "naive" expectation.

—Can rotten soil really sprout new buds?

She must be giving a bitter smile.

"Sometimes this kind of hope sounds really 'naive'—I might even get laughed at by my colleagues."

—If it were that guy, he would definitely laugh at his beggar for being an idiot.

That's how it will be—if he's still alive.

The spirit avatar tried hard to smile, but the face painted with flames only made Land look more mocking and ferocious.

"I really want to tell that idiot—"

The naive driver slowly extinguished the massive destructive technique that had been activated, as if weeping softly, yet resolutely, to himself.

—It is this hope—that makes me happy.

""

In that instant, the flames searching for the enemy found their target again: when the pilot instinctively tried to launch an attack, he found that the gray figure was just hovering in mid-air, motionless.

His expression—

The spirit tried to see his expression clearly, but could only read a kind of "disappointment" and a kind of resolute "sorrow".

—It sounded like something that was burning suddenly went out.

For no reason at all, the pilot's own heartbeat—also went out in that instant, in those few seconds.

She suddenly felt uneasy.

then----

A strange rustling sound, accompanied by the gray shadow's outstretched palm movement, resounded within the spiritual realm—

Driven by impulse, she manipulated her spirit body, mimicking the person's movements, and quietly raised her palm.

Something heavy fell and landed in my palm.

—The pitch-black rainwater was like asphalt, murky and round.

"Rain—" The girl looked up, and the bright flames became thin and dim in the rising black steam.

—About the rain.

The pilot's amber eyes were blurred in the rain.

Heavy rain is coming.

Hume's Tree, Central Protocol Area.

"I'll send you the information, sir."

The assistant returned to the old elf's side with his hands behind his back and whispered a reminder, "About that writhing descendant—oh no, pilot."

"Um----"

A screen of think tank light flickered in Monet's eyes:

Vertin: Female, 17 years old, Gender: Chinchilla Shorthair (Silver Shaded), Affiliation: Countermeasures Bureau, Authority Level: 4 (Interim Head of the Execution Department), Intelligence Assessment: 5 (Extreme), Affinity with Pathways: 5 (Extreme), Container Strength: 5 (Extreme), Mental Limit: ? (Unable to estimate)

—A supernova beyond our comprehension; we can't even predict her ultimate fate.

"Ten years old————"

The old elf's eyes were glazed over. He smoked heavily, finishing the cigarette in two puffs, then slightly swayed his head and said in a deep voice, "The younger generation is truly formidable—"

'

"Boss, if you want to satisfy your curiosity, I think you need to look at this coin—"

Finally, another assistant interrupted Monet's endless slacking off.

"The interference has become stronger."

He pointed to the spherical screen being projected, and at some point, the image on it had completely fallen into darkness.

"What's wrong with that?"

Monet waved it off nonchalantly and casually remarked, "I guess the layer of ash has almost healed, so they covered it up again."

"No, this time it's not quite the same—" the assistant hesitated, seemingly finding it difficult to speak.

"Perhaps there's a problem with the monitoring component of the Hume Tree. We're getting a lot of erroneous return values ​​that shouldn't exist. The load on the Descent protocol carrying the core is too high, and it's probably messed up something. It needs a major overhaul by the cryptocurrency exchange."

He pointed to a chart, "This is it, something's not right."

When he realized what it meant, even Monet stood up abruptly from his silence: "Impossible—"

The old beggar's expression changed from calm to unprecedented bewilderment.

The data in this coin column presents values ​​that would never occur under any natural circumstances.

Hume Value (Currently in the Outer Suburbs): 0