Chapter 93

Chapter 93: The Fourth Fractal

“Alright, time to retreat.” The Hermit pulled out the USB drive, simultaneously retrieving the handwritten notes she’d transcribed alongside it.  

As expected, the moment the computer rebooted, its data self-destructed. The completely alien programming, unlike any standard supercomputer, would have left most people utterly helpless.  

Good thing she was a transcription esper.  

The USB and paper had limited capacity, preventing a full data dump. A shame, she’d been curious about Easter’s recent projects.  

Black Element research alone occupied eight gigabytes, text only. These people were dangerous. Still, what they’d salvaged was substantial.  

The Hermit turned and waved at Mi Xiaoliu, who sat alone on the steps playing cat’s cradle. “Hourglass! You done yet?”  

“Coming, coming. So cruel, boss—treating me like free labor.” Hayato jogged over with a gasoline canister.  

The Hermit tossed the computer into a metal drum.  

Despite its advanced tech, the device was surprisingly compact. Typical Easter efficiency.  

“You’re the only man here. Can’t expect two delicate women to handle manual labor, right?” The Hermit smirked, draping an arm over Mi Xiaoliu’s shoulders.  

Hayato had no counter for this twenty-years-of-feminism punchline.  

They hauled the drum to an open roadside area, poured in the gasoline, lit a match, and booked it.  

Electronics fires tended to explode.  

Best not to burn down the house—too conspicuous. The Little Demon King still lurked in the city, though he likely wouldn’t bother with this backwater.  

The Hermit handed the documents and USB to Mi Xiaoliu for safekeeping in her system storage. Foolproof.  

Aside from the Fallen City incident, this might be Easter’s first data breach.  

Thrilling. Easter was even more enigmatic than Night Eagle (Hawk).  

Suspiciously smooth.  

Or so she thought.  

As their car accelerated onto the main road, the Hermit relaxed, ready to nap with Mi Xiaoliu as a pillow, when the rearview mirror caught movement.  

A black-leather-clad man with a Balbo beard strolled casually from the yard they’d just left.  

Then he vanished from the mirror, reappearing directly ahead, blocking their path.  

Actual teleportation.  

Fortunately, Hayato was no saint. Instead of swerving, he floored the gas.  

The man didn’t dodge. He extended his right index finger and tapped the hood as the car barreled toward him.  

Like a movie effect, the vehicle split down the middle—halves veering perfectly around him, scraping sparks along the asphalt.  

The Hermit, sensing danger, shoved Mi Xiaoliu aside just in time. Without that, the girl would’ve been bisected.  

Clutching the door handle in a death grip, the Hermit regretted skipping seatbelts. Even without ejection, friction peeled skin off her arms, and ruined her designer clothes.  

They found us? She’d assumed since the Princess stole the computer undetected, they were safe.  

Easter’s terrifying.  

“Hourglass!”  

No need to prompt him.  

As the split car screeched to a halt, Hayato disappeared from the driver’s seat—seatbelt unbuckling itself.  

He rematerialized seven paces from the leather-clad man, a smoking pistol in hand. No warning—just a bullet aimed between the eyes.  

At this range, without superspeed, dodging was impossible. Seven paces, gun beats all. Even with Hayato’s amateur training.  

Yet the man didn’t evade. The bullet pierced his forehead—no damage, no blood.  

“Time stop?” He eyed Hayato, recognizing an ability rarer than the Yangtze giant softshell turtle.  

Per Easter’s data, time-stoppers didn’t freeze the world—they shifted into a detached temporal stream.  

Similar in outcome, but it meant competing time-stoppers simply overrode each other—no JoJo-style “thinking within stopped time.” No scenarios where one esper pauses the globe while another, continents away, rolls their eyes waiting for it to end. Or worse—canceling it prematurely.  

Hayato’s bullet, fired mid-stop, should’ve remained lethal—his ability propelled it post-trigger. Yet it refroze upon leaving the barrel.  

Even so, most couldn’t dodge a no-windup shot. This was a first.  

Not dodging. More like… phasing. Obito Uchiha-level bullshit. Either illusion-based or true spatial manipulation.  

Hayato’s temple gleamed with sweat.  

A spatial esper of this caliber wasn’t some amateur who teleported naked because they forgot their clothes.  

“Encountered a time-stopper. Retrieve for study?” The black leather man mused into his liaison.  

From the car’s other half, a black-coated girl kicked open the door.  

“Master, it’s Easter’s Fourth Fractal—LV4 Spatial Manipulation,” Sasha identified instantly.  

Easter…  

Discomfort twisted in Mi Xiaoliu’s gut—deeper than her usual aversion to the name.  

She had no memory, but Sasha knew.  

Six years ago, at Easter’s Branch 2, post-revival experiments included dismemberment—limbs scattered across isolated dimensions to test regeneration…  

“Sixth Fractal.” The black leather man frowned at the now-taller girl. “You found Mi?” came the shocked reply. “Can you see her space?”  

“No.”  

“Then attempt retrieval. Failing that, just bring the time-stopper.”  

Something streaked toward Mi Xiaoliu—bullet fast.  

Like a mouse drag-selecting across a desktop—but in 3D.  

A shadowy wave (or so her colorblind eyes perceived) surged forth. Without her unique vision, she’d never have spotted it.  

Newbie combat suit reflexes saved her—but the car behind her halved again. One section remained; the other vanished into a parallel space.  

Not just the car. The effect cleaved two kilometers of road—several bikers lost torsos mid-ride, their legs continuing inertia-bound before collapsing.  

Good news: She dodged.  

Bad news: This spatial attack, like her own, wasn’t single-use. It expanded—slicing the highway, her right arm, then arcing for her face.  

All within two seconds. No time for Hayato or the Hermit to react.  

Then—the shadow vanished.  

Agony lanced through Mi Xiaoliu’s shoulder as she crumpled, muscle memory stifling any scream. The pain was bearable.  

Her arm regrew—impossibly fast.  

Her eyes burned anew, heart hammering with inexplicable dread—even as she couldn’t pinpoint its source.  

“Bad timing?” A bland male voice.  

“Someone worse just arrived…” The Hermit, peeking from the car wreck, was drenched in cold sweat.  

A reaper’s cloak—jet-black, pooling on the ground—swathed the newcomer. The oversized hood obscured all features, prioritizing edge over practicality.  

The night’s third black-clad figure.  

The Hermit’s mind raced. Can we grab our mascot and bail while they fight?  

But even ignorant of the black leather man’s prowess, she doubted he could oppose this entity.  

LV5: Little Demon King.