TBR CH106

Even against wild beasts in nature, the same trap rarely works twice.

— Blackhawk’s final warning at the institute’s emergency crisis seminar before stepping into the field.

—

“The situation has reached this point. It’s time to negotiate a truce,” Isidor said with a smile, a strange glint in his eyes. “But the Dawn Project had its first silent failure, its second collapse, and it will inevitably face a third revival in the future. Humanity will always tread this path.”

The seamless titanium-white metal door concealed all filth. Asta stood before it, listening carefully with a beast’s ears to the sounds outside. As expected, the situation matched Isidor’s description perfectly.

There were people, but only unarmed ordinary humans. Their rapid breathing betrayed their tension.

They could only stare fixedly at the door that determined their fate, cold sweat freezing their bodies stiff. In their hands were special institute-issued communicators, paired with the surveillance cameras flashing red overhead, recording everything that happened here. Any sound could snap their nerves taut.

They were the institute’s negotiation experts, the higher-ups’ desperate gamble, betting that Project Alpha might still show leniency, betting on the SSS-class monster’s record of never harming those without resistance.

Asta extended its hand. Behind it, tentacles surged from the seawater, gleaming spears aligning with its will, suddenly piercing toward the metal door like lightning.

The force required to open this door was indeed terrifyingly immense, and the institute hadn’t miscalculated that.

But Asta was faster.

The people outside only had time to widen their eyes, a choked sound beginning in their throats, before the tentacles pouring from the door silenced their mouths with lightning speed. Asta knocked them all out cleanly, striking the backs of their necks.

It was experienced in this, the technique identical to pulling struggling sailors from the sea.

The entire process was silent, save for a faint whisper of wind.

The communicators were caught by the tentacles before hitting the ground, gently set down. The black-eyed monster then slowly emerged from the door, its steps soundless. It tilted its head slightly, looking at its reflection in the surveillance camera’s glass.

At the same moment, its tentacles writhed like rampant vegetation, sprouting thousands of pure black eyes.

The camera’s red light flickered frantically.

The titanium-white door closed silently behind it. Asta smiled, extinguishing the eyes on its tentacles, hiding all inhuman parts back in its shadow. At this moment, it even adjusted its collar, making itself look impeccably neat and polite.

Its research robe concealed all abnormalities.

It walked forward, unhurried, with no intent to hide.

Yet no person or machine could track its movements. Until the next shift of workers arrived or a drowsy observer realized the surveillance was looping old footage, the institute wouldn’t notice anything amiss—or that it had already left the room.

The impostor researcher Asta Black, with tentacles hidden in its sleeves, blended into the bustling crowd in the corridor.

—

The institute had been steeped in an inexplicable tension lately.

This atmosphere trickled down from the top. Even the lowliest researchers, unaware of what was happening, inherited the oppressive mood from their superiors. Burdened with heavy thoughts, researchers hurried through the corridors with lowered heads, occasionally muttering “excuse me.”

Naturally, they wouldn’t notice a lean man unless they met his dark, seemingly empty eyes. Asta walked quietly forward, its chest badge indistinguishable from the others, now even functioning as a real ID card—thanks to Isidor’s handiwork.

“No point in not doing it,” Isidor had said, his logic sound. “We’ve already found the network system’s vulnerability.”

Thus, the impostor employee Asta had a card that could access nearly all areas, saving a lot of trouble and allowing the monster to navigate the labyrinthine institute unnoticed, until it reached its first destination today: a place to retrieve something important Isidor had left behind.

Hidden in plain sight, the items lay in the institute’s mundane archive room in District D.

It was a place researchers frequently visited but left no lasting impression. Asta stood before a bookshelf lined with black folders, each marked with dates, recording every work cycle’s attendance. Once documented, these papers rarely saw daylight again.

Asta pulled out a folder from the corner.

Instead of opening it, it felt along the gap left behind. Its knuckles brushed the wooden panel against the wall, free of dust, as this place wasn’t unvisited. The monster found a rough protrusion, a hidden compartment.

With a gentle push, the panel loosened.

In the dim depths of the bookshelf, an uninvited guest with black pupils appeared, in a place no one ever checked. It was enough for Asta to retrieve the hidden items and examine them closely.

A small but thick diary, carefully preserved by its owner.

A familiar bracelet, two metal star clinking softly as they collided; a large emerald, once dull, now glimmering faintly when picked up.

The monster let go, and the notebook slid quickly, swallowed by its surging shadow the moment it touched the ground. But when it looked at the bracelet, it paused, a thin layer of ice seeming to form in its indifferent eyes.

Those who worshipped it, placing it on a pedestal.

Those willing to sacrifice for a fabricated story, believing its apocalypse was true salvation.

The emerald, called “Shafrey,” was hollowed out at its center, a communication tool between Isidor and an external organization. It could activate a signal by sensing the monster’s palm’s warmth. Their god lowered its gaze, watching the emerald’s flickering glow, knowing it was a request for communication.

Accept or reject?

It gently stroked the green stone.

—

In the headquarters of the “Black star,” people of all kinds looked up in unison at the speaker on the proclamation stage.

His passionate speech paused mid-sentence, the screen behind him displaying evidence of the god’s incredible power, nearly overwhelming in its terrifying yet beautiful mystery. The emerald on the bracelet suddenly spun, flashing with light.

The speaker halted:

“He may have strayed, long out of contact with us. But the pure black star see through all, piercing his disguise. Even if he seems loyal, the irreverent cannot be trusted. But if he sincerely repents…”

As he spoke, he reached to activate the communication. The audience’s expressions carried an abnormal excitement, less like a prayer for believers and more like a ritual steeped in blood and animal musk, the speaker’s unmasked malice sharp as spikes, openly inciting.

They had needed Isidor at first, but now, with all preparations complete, the researcher had become an easily manipulated outsider.

“Let’s project the communication on the screen,” the speaker said, his eyes gleaming with malicious excitement. “Let’s hear Shafrey’s words—”

His voice stopped abruptly as his gaze hit the screen. His nostrils flared slightly, utterly confused by what appeared on the other end. It wasn’t the familiar, cold face of the researcher. A young man with black eyes stood abruptly in the center of the projection.

The room erupted in countless whispers, countless prying gazes stabbing at the screen like needles.

Eyes devoid of reason, dripping with venom, frenzied for the grand plan, willing to sacrifice everything. No ordinary person could withstand such an absurd scene.

If he were a mere intruder, those serrated eyes would tear him to shreds.

Yet the man on the screen faced these gazes calmly.

He had black eyes.

…So deep, like stars without a trace of light.

The speaker’s pupils contracted sharply, as if pricked by a needle, his fingers trembling unconsciously. At the same time, silence swept the room like a deadly virus, spreading rapidly among the men and women. Those wearing black star bracelets froze, as if nailed in place by immense shock.

Realizing who was on the other end, they heard its cold laughter.

In an instant, a chilling dread, like sinking into an abyss, seeped into everyone’s bones—a primal submission to absolute, terrifying power, a grotesque awe no text or image could convey. The speaker, who considered himself the world’s foremost expert on it, felt his legs hollow out, collapsing to his knees in a daze.

“Great one,” he didn’t dare lift his eyes, his vision haunted by phantom tentacles, “Great Lord, I am your loyal and humble servant, trembling before your power.”

Asta, having left the archive room, found a quiet corner to connect the communication.

As the leader prostrated, everyone in the hall fell to their knees, as if soulless, their malice transforming into extreme dread and fervent worship.

Their voices overlapped in a strange, rhythmic chant, ceaselessly professing absolute faith and loyalty, begging it to lead them, to dominate the world, to bring reward and ruin.

Asta listened, feeling a headache. Being worshipped and feared was, as expected, unpleasant. It wasn’t adept at playing god, but upon reflection, perhaps what these people needed wasn’t a god—and it was certainly experienced at being terrifying.

“Stop.” The syllable vibrated oddly, laced with an ominous hum.

On the other side of the screen, as the monster’s voice rang out, all sound in the room was swallowed into a black hole. A few bold individuals dared to look up, only to see their deity lift its eyes with displeasure, speaking softly:

“Ignorant followers, what gives you the audacity to make demands of me?”

Shadows seemed to come alive from the projection, slithering into the room. Sharp, venom-laced tentacles lingered in the hall’s darkness, filling every heart with dread of the grotesque.

The speaker remained prostrate, sensing something amiss, but terror stifled his thoughts. “Great Lord, we are all gathered here for the same cause—to break the chains that bind you. May I boldly ask, all-knowing one, has the human who gave you the gem… spoken to you?”

As expected, that question came.

Asta crushed the mint candy in its mouth, the sharp coolness sweeping over its tongue. It was an odd method, but it did make it appear more like a cold, “inhuman” entity, its eyes glinting with faint cruelty.

“Him?” the lofty ruler said dismissively. “He’s dead.”

“How could…” The speaker blurted out, then realized his transgression, pressing his forehead to the ground in panic.

“I realized he was lying to me, so I killed him,” the monster stated naturally, as if it had merely crushed an ant. Though the audience harbored suspicions about Isidor, they were well aware of his absolute prowess. Over the years, he had been a hidden blade in the institute, silently eliminating obstacles to the plan.

Their god was indeed as powerful and cruel as they imagined, capricious and unrestrained.

Asta stood in the institute’s shadows, the pristine white wall behind it, the mint candy’s scent fading.

That should suffice—

It spoke lightly, “I despise humans who deceive. You will reveal everything, hiding nothing, or misfortune will befall you as it did him.”

“Great Lord,” the trembling voices of those kneeling before it replied, “of course, we offer everything.”

—

Asta casually tucked the bracelet into its sleeve, where writhing tentacles whisked it away.

Dealing with fanatical believers felt utterly dreadful, leaving the monster in low spirits even after cutting the communication. Moreover, whether it was seeking “Flower” or the Child of Fate, Hill, neither task promised to be pleasant.

It crushed the last mint candy, regretting not raiding the break room’s entire candy stash.

The institute remained tense, but no alarms had sounded yet. Asta assumed the people sprawled unconscious on the floor were still safely out. Everything was going slightly smoother than expected.

So, time wasn’t too pressing for now—

The monster looked up, the bakery’s golden cursive sign reflecting in its eyes. The sweet aroma of vanilla and cream wafted through, and through the transparent display case, freshly baked bread gleamed with glossy, honey-colored crusts. Sliced cakes sat delicately on lace-patterned baking paper, layered with strawberry bits and mango chunks slathered in sweet jam.

Since the institute’s shops used card payments, Isidor had thoughtfully loaded Asta’s fake ID card with enough funds.

The monster made up its mind.

At this hour, the bakery had few visitors, with several red-and-white checkered tables free. The desserts, however, were at their freshest. Asta’s white plastic tray held several paper bags with receipts pinned to them.

It headed to the seating area, counting down three seconds in its mind.

Then, a surprised, slightly hesitant voice called out: “Mr. Black?”

John had only wanted a quiet place to clear his mind. He’d initially planned to visit the coffee shop as usual, but decided to switch things up. The bakery offered drinks and seating too, and the heavy scent of desserts could indeed wash away some of his troubles.

To his surprise, as if answering his inner turmoil, the stranger he’d hit it off with last time was at the bakery too.

He hesitated, then called out to him.

Being off duty at this hour, Asta’s job must be quite relaxed. This thought eased John’s guilt slightly. He desperately needed someone to confide in, and who better than this familiar stranger? Unconnected to his position and already somewhat aware of the situation, John wouldn’t even need to start from scratch.

“Ah,” Asta stared at him for a few seconds before smiling politely. “You’re John… right? I remember we talked at the café. Quite a coincidence meeting you here. Maybe you need help?”

“That obvious?” John gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“Pretty obvious,” Asta said, sitting across from him and setting down its tray.

In this shop, the monster had bought the most desserts by far. And it didn’t seem to plan on taking them to go, opting to eat there. John noticed this with a fleeting curiosity but decided not to dwell on it, especially since Asta generously opened one of the bags.

“Buttery bread crisps,” it said, sliding the bag to the center of the table. “Guaranteed delicious.”

The crisp shell gave way to a soft center, butter and creaminess filling his mouth. Sharing food was a friendly gesture, and Asta was right—it was delicious.

John felt his urge to confide rise to the tip of his tongue.

“Speaking of,” he began, easing into an old topic, “last time you left, you said you’d try my advice. So, how’s it going with that lady?”

“We’re together,” Asta said bluntly. “And you? Did your mentor forgive you?”

John fell silent, sighing—a response in itself.

“Congrats, then. If only things were as smooth for me. I apologized, but things got worse. I did something unforgivable again, and this time, I might not even get the chance to apologize.”

“What happened?” Asta asked, feigning ignorance. “Did he refuse to see you, or has he already left? I recall institute transfers take time. You might still have a chance.”

John’s expression darkened further.

“What could I say to him? I did everything I could, but he’s too stubborn, so we ended up on opposite sides. I… forget it. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

The man with black eyes across from him seemed to grasp the gravity, casting a sympathetic, concerned look. John felt Asta’s eyes held a strange allure, making him instinctively want to trust and rely on him. He seemed dependable—and he liked sweets.

After all, Blackhawk had never seen a higher-up with candy or desserts on their desk.

That meant Asta was nothing like them.

“Why?” Asta asked softly. “Did you do something wrong, or do you still believe your mentor was wrong?”

John opened his mouth to explain further but found words failing him. He wanted to dissect his powerlessness, to curse fate’s unfairness for forcing him to uphold his stance. He tried to argue Isidor’s actions were wrong, but now, it felt pointless.

The words “I still think he was wrong” lingered on his tongue, but for some reason, he couldn’t say them.

Noticing his unusual silence, Asta raised its eyes reassuringly. “You said you apologized. If it’s okay, tell me what happened. Even if you think it’s too late, the one suffering now is you. That can still be fixed.”

John took a deep breath, grabbed a bread crisp, and mumbled, “Alright.”

A quarter of an hour later, the monster interrupted the human sinking back into self-blame.

“I don’t think your mentor still hates you for past events,” it said, watching John’s eyes light up. “You were too young back then. But that’s the problem—you’re still making the same mistake.”

Asta was an excellent listener, cutting to the heart of issues, except when it came to its own emotions. For Blackhawk, any advice felt like a lifeline. For the first time, he deeply analyzed everything he’d done.

“Yes,” he murmured, “I seem to keep making mistakes.”

The man before him raised his dark eyes, emotions seemingly swallowed within them. John felt calm yet pierced by an inexplicable fear. But the bright room and the aroma of bread soothed him.

“No, your mistake is never truly considering his perspective,” Asta said. “Even now, you believe your path is right, and your mentor was just swayed by emotions. But that doesn’t match the image of him you’ve described, does it? He’s the smarter, more resolute one.”

“…True.”

Confusion made John fidget with his fingers again.

“You’ve always been passive. The so-called right path is just the one you had to take. In contrast, he’s the one who held the initiative, the one who truly made decisions. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

The words were heavy, but Asta quickly softened its tone. “Of course, I don’t know the specifics. Just throwing it out there, hoping I’m not overstepping. Why not try the strawberry cake?”

“Oh, thanks,” John said, instinctively scooping a bite. “Your advice is good. I’m starting to think… maybe I really should reconsider.”

Asta smiled.

The captain of the special armaments, Blackhawk, sat before it, while the monster played therapist. John opened his mouth, as if to say more, but his communicator suddenly blared with a shrill alarm. His lips pressed together, his gaze turning sharp and alert. He mouthed a silent apology to Asta.

Answering the call, he stood abruptly, not even sparing time for a goodbye.

The monster remained seated, watching John’s retreating figure through the transparent display case as he hurried off. Fully armed special agents were moving orderly to various sectors. Though the institute’s technology muffled the words from the communicator, Asta knew exactly what had thrown John into high alert.

Right on schedule, just as Isidor had predicted.

The institute had learned that Alpha might have breached containment, and the special armaments were tasked with tracking it down. The culprit, meanwhile, leisurely took a big bite of a cream puff, finishing the last item in the bag.

As it left the bakery, the wind chimes by the door swayed with the opening and closing, letting out a series of crisp, pleasant rings.

As if welcoming, or bidding farewell.