The Youth

Judging from the shape of the wounds and the lingering energy traces, they had clearly been killed by some highly condensed, terrifyingly powerful energy attack.

“It looks a bit like an Energy Missile...” Matthew analyzed quickly in his mind as he hid behind a wall.

Most of the other corpses had met similar ends, clearly killed instantly by the same source of attack while attempting to flee.

But what brought a slight sense of relief to his heart was that Aidan's body was not among them.

In fact, several other Class holders he had met earlier were also missing, suggesting that Aidan and the others had likely escaped successfully.

Moonlight filtered through the hideous breach in the wall, casting mottled, cold patches of light on the floor. The lobby was filled with lingering dust and a scorched stench, the corpses strewn across the ground silently testifying to the sudden death that had just transpired.

Matthew hid quietly behind the wall, his gaze sweeping over those familiar yet lifeless faces—Karon, Leah... A complex ripple of emotion inevitably stirred in his heart.

“If I had decisively given up the investigation and evacuated earlier...” His thoughts wandered slightly.

But the thought only flashed for a second before being suppressed by reason.

These people had fled the moment they could, yet survivors were still scarce.

The explosion just now had been terrifyingly powerful, the attack precise and sudden. Even if he had rushed out with them, he might not have been any luckier.

Under that kind of indiscriminate energy bombardment, personal skill and adaptability could hardly alter the outcome.

Moreover—

He instinctively tightened his grip on the bulging pouch at his waist.

The discoveries in the underground laboratory—those notebooks, vessels, and even the fleeting glimpse of an entire magical civilization... their value far exceeded money, and might even open a door to a world he had never seen before. Compared to such gains, the risk he had just taken was clearly worth it.

Besides, the enemy was in the light while he was in the dark.

Although the other party had sealed the exit with thunderous force, they might not know someone was still hiding underground.

As long as he kept his cool and left no trace, he should be perfectly safe.

If the opportunity arose and he succeeded in a sneak attack to kill them, the precious materials underground would be of immeasurable value!

At this thought, the last trace of hesitation in Matthew's heart vanished.

Things had already come to this, and there was no point in overthinking. Rather than regretting the path not taken, it was better to focus on the situation at hand.

He slowly adjusted his breathing, melting deeper into the shadows of the corner, completely suppressing his presence until he was like a lifeless stone.

The lobby remained dead silent.

There was only the howling of the night wind through the breach, and the occasional faint sound from afar, though whether it was real or an illusion was hard to tell.

Matthew held his breath, keeping his ears open and his eyes peeled, waiting quietly.

While Matthew was lost in thought, two dull thuds suddenly echoed. He looked toward the source of the sound and saw two corpses being thrown back in from outside the breach, crashing heavily onto the floor.

His heart tightened, and his gaze quickly swept over them—Aidan's body was not there. He couldn't help but feel a trace of doubt: Had Aidan really escaped? But that luck seemed almost too good to be true.

Or perhaps...

His thoughts reached this point.

Matthew glanced up at the second floor.

Was Aidan hiding on the second floor right now?

But since he didn't see him, it was a good thing regardless.

Just then, a figure slowly stepped out from the dark breach.

It was a yellow-haired youth. His hair shimmered with a cold luster under the moonlight, and most of his face was hidden in shadow, revealing only a single eye.

He was not particularly tall, yet he exuded an exceptionally calm, almost indifferent sense of stability.

His steps were light, making virtually no sound, as if he were one with the surrounding darkness, yet he carried a silent pressure.

The moment Matthew saw him, a needle-like Spirit quietly swept over his entire body, cold and sharp, as if trying to peer through him completely.

Matthew's heart sank—he had been discovered.

Moreover, from his rough estimation, this Spirit was far more solid than his own, almost tangible!

However, the youth did not seem to care about Matthew's presence. He simply stopped in his tracks, his gaze falling upon the corpses on the floor.

Then, he walked slowly to each corpse, knelt down, and flipped over their faces, checked their pupils, and inspected their necks and physical conditions with his fingers. His movements were as calm as if he were taking inventory of items.

Throughout the process, his breathing remained steady, almost mechanical, and his light green, single eye showed no ripples of emotion.

There was neither pity for life nor excitement for slaughter, only a near-rigorous focus, like a craftsman inspecting a tool waiting to be repaired.

After about the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, he stood up, pulled out a narrow leather-bound notebook and a slender charcoal pencil from his breast pocket.

Right there in the moonlight and the night wind howling through the breach, he flipped open the notebook.

Most of the pages inside were already filled with neat but cold handwriting, occasionally interspersed with concise symbols or diagrams.

After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the charcoal pencil to the paper.

The extremely faint scratching sound of the pencil tip rubbing against the paper was exceptionally clear in the dead silence of the lobby.

He did not write quickly. Every few lines, he would pause and glance back at one of the corpses on the ground, as if verifying data or recording a detail he had just confirmed.

Matthew took all of this in, his gaze landing on the notebook the youth was rapidly writing in. A strong wave of mixed confusion and alertness inevitably welled up in his heart.

The youth could kill several Class holders so effortlessly, and his Spirit was as solid as a wall, far exceeding Matthew's own as an apprentice who had barely touched the threshold. The disparity in their strength was self-evident.

Yet, he had clearly discovered Matthew hiding here long ago—the Spirit that had scanned his body was proof of that—so why... was there no reaction?

He simply recorded so focusedly, as if Matthew, the hidden onlooker, was no different from the charred corpses on the floor or even the dust in the air.

No, perhaps Matthew was even lesser than those corpses, for the corpses were at least “data” under his pen.

This brought a near-absurd chill to Matthew. Did he not even have the value of being “recorded” in the other's eyes? Or was it that all of his reactions were already within the other's “observation” or “anticipation”? Was the youth not afraid of a sneak attack? Was this the confidence granted by sheer strength?

“Are wizards... all like this?”

The thought emerged uncontrollably.

He knew very little; his only impressions came from legends and speculation: mysterious, powerful, pursuers of knowledge, often regarded as outcasts.

Yet what this one-eyed youth displayed was something colder and more extreme—a perspective that completely “objectified” living beings, whether friend or foe, into observation specimens and experimental data.

Slaughter was not out of anger or tyranny, and recording was not for remembrance or commemoration. Everything was merely for verification, measurement, and the accumulation of knowledge.

High efficiency, zero emotion.

This indifference of pure rationality made Matthew feel more disoriented than simple bloodlust. It meant he could not use common sense to gauge the logic behind the other's actions.

The other party's disregard might stem from absolute confidence in his strength, or it might mean Matthew himself was already part of some “experimental process” without realizing it.

He instinctively clenched his fists, forcing himself to break away from his chaotic thoughts.

Fear and confusion would not solve the problem.

He had to calm down and analyze the situation:

The other party had not acted immediately, which, regardless of the reason, represented a glimmer of hope.

Perhaps it was because his identity as a “wizard apprentice” made him slightly different?

Perhaps because the other's current experimental phase did not require new “specimens” for now?

Or perhaps it was simply that “his turn had not yet come”?

Just then, the yellow-haired youth spoke, his voice not loud but clearly piercing through the drifting dust:

“Come out. Since we both came here to seek refuge, what is the meaning of your actions?”

His tone was flat, devoid of killing intent, and even carried a hint of friendliness.

It was as if the thunderous strike from earlier was no different from brushing dust off his sleeve.

In his eyes, Class holders were no different from ordinary mortals—both were merely lower-level existences unworthy of any extra attention.

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