The chaos outside St. Martin's Art Centre rippled through the London evening like a stone cast into a pond. Terrified people streamed out, many pale, wide-eyed, babbling incoherently about "horrible nightmares," "losing control," and "that evil statue." Some bore scrapes and bruises from falls; others fainted from shock. Traffic snarled. The wail of sirens grew louder, red and blue lights cutting through the deepening dusk.
"Mass hysteria? Some new hallucinogenic gas leak? Or did that damned immersive experience just go off the rails?" a hi-vis vest-clad officer barked into his comm, directing his team to disperse the crowd and secure the area. Media crews, smelling blood in the water, swarmed, cameras and microphones thrust at shell-shocked survivors and the temporarily sealed entrance.
"…Eyewitnesses report sudden mass hallucinations and erratic behavior during the 'Whispers in the Static' exhibition… organizers unavailable for comment… police are investigating potential technical malfunctions with lighting, sound, or ventilation…" A news helicopter buzzed overhead, the reporter's rapid-fire delivery echoing down the street. The official narrative of "technical failure" or "collective psychological episode" quickly dominated headlines, striving to repackage the supernatural disaster as a tragic accident.
Yet, beneath the clamor of the mundane world, the real storm was brewing behind the Veil.
In a nearby safehouse, the holographic projection of Oliver Thorne, "The White Tower," hovered sternly above the command console. Lena White stood before screens displaying: the chaotic scene at St. Martin's, Alan Shaw's profile marked "HIGH PRIORITY SURVEILLANCE TARGET," and the energy signature graph that haunted her – the chaotic crimson peak annihilated by a unique transparent wave.
"Analysis?" Thorne's voice was calm, laced with pressure.
"Confirmed high-intensity, artificially induced psychic Anima burst. Origin point: a potentiated Anima object, preliminarily classified as a Class-B prohibited psychic contaminant, codename 'Static'." Lena pointed to the graph. "Burst intensity reached A-class threat level, capable of causing localized permanent mental trauma or mass casualty events. However, it was neutralized… annihilated… at its peak by an unknown energy signature. The method… unprecedented. Near 'rule-based erasure.' Residual energy minimal and signature… pure. Designated 'Harmonization'."
She brought up the grainy entrance footage, Alan's face enlarged. "Subject: Alan Shaw, 18, resident of 'Bai Cao Tang,' East End Chinatown. Present at the epicenter at the exact time of the nullification event. Background check shows mundane Eurasian youth, no flags. But post-event Anima residue tracking… locks onto him." Her finger traced a nearly invisible, faint energy trail on the city map overlay, stretching from the art centre directly to the East End. "The 'Harmonization' signature residue on him matches the nullification source. He was the eraser."
Thorne's gaze, sharp as a hawk's, scrutinized Alan's file and the anomalous graph. "Pure suppressive null… neutralization without conflict… Intriguing. The Hounds' noses are sharp. Agent White, initiate Protocol Silent Watch, Level Two. I want everything on him. Especially that grandfather and his herb shop. Assess potential… and threat level. He could be a key… or a live grenade." He paused. "And ensure the 'sweepers' clean up the mundane mess efficiently. No distractions."
"Understood." Lena nodded, a flicker of complexity in her eyes. The youth she'd noted at the docks was far more unique, and far more dangerous, than she'd thought. She deployed: one team of tech-operatives disguised as municipal workers, deploying micro-surveillance runes and energy sniffers near "Bai Cao Tang"; another team of data analysts deep-diving into every scrap of info on Alan and Old Man Shaw; herself preparing for close observation in the East End.
Meanwhile, deep within London's forgotten Victorian sewers, in a disused overflow chamber reeking of rust and decay. Flickering candlelight barely illuminated a central Ouroboros sigil drawn in dark red pigment. The hooded figure – Shadowweaver – knelt at its edge, reporting in a low, reverent tone tinged with lingering shock to a shifting, faceless mass of shadowy energy hovering above the symbol.
"…The 'Whispering Heart' was utterly destroyed. Ritual aborted. Target awakened unexpectedly… its ability… not mental resistance or shielding…" Shadowweaver's voice held confusion. "…Annihilation! Pure, enforced Anima neutralization! My 'Withering Touch' dissolved upon contact… localized precision, nature… Harmonization. I have never witnessed such a pure affinity… or… such a dangerous anomaly."
The shadow mass roiled, emitting a subhuman hiss like grinding stones, radiating fury and a thread of… hunger. "…Harmonization? Annihilation?… A nascent Prime Glyph?… Or… the Key?"
"Identity confirmed," Shadowweaver added swiftly. "Alan Shaw. East End Chinatown. Grandson of Sean Shaw, proprietor of 'Bai Cao Tang.' The grandfather… background suspect, possible Eastern esoteric knowledge, but low Anima tier. Insignificant. The target… immense potential, clearly untrained and unaware."
The shadow-face contorted silently for a moment, the hiss intensifying. "…Shaw… Bai Cao Tang… that old rat on the watch list… was hiding something!… Alan Shaw… designated 'Priority Acquisition Target – Codename: The Harmonizer'! By any means necessary!… Retrieve!… Study!… Its ability may touch the forbidden domains of 'Conflux of Elements'… even 'Loom of Life'!… And a potential key to the Prime Glyphs!… Execute!"
"By your will, My Lord!" Shadowweaver bowed deeply.
"This failure… is unforgivable." The voice turned glacial. "…Redeem yourself… or… you know the consequence." The shadow-mass contracted violently, the face dissolving, leaving only a chilling resonance in the chamber.
Shadowweaver trembled imperceptibly as he rose. Fear of punishment warred with the sickly excitement ignited by the new objective. He snapped orders via encrypted Anima comms: "Target: Alan Shaw. Location: East End Chinatown, 'Bai Cao Tang.' Operation: Crow Strike. Target Priority: Alpha. Parameters: Capture target alive. Eliminate all resistance. Execute: Tonight."
Shadows detached themselves from the chamber's deeper gloom, bowing in silent acknowledgment before melting into the labyrinthine sewer network.
Alan half-carried, half-dragged the still-shaky, traumatized Emily home. Her parents were horrified by her state. Alan mumbled vague explanations about overwhelming special effects, possible "gas issues," and everyone feeling unwell. Only when the door closed behind Emily, safe with her family, did Alan finally release a long, exhausted breath, as if shedding a great weight. But the stone in his chest sank heavier.
He walked alone through the neon-lit Chinatown. Familiar signs, food smells, neighborly greetings – none could pierce the cold dread coiling around his heart. The nightmare at the art centre, the hooded figure's serpent gaze, Emily's vacant eyes and near-breakdown, and the uncontrollable, terrifying power within him that had surged forth… it all wrapped around him like icy vines, tightening with every step.
"Grandfather…" Alan whispered, quickening his pace. He needed the sanctuary of "Bai Cao Tang," the comforting scent of herbs, the safety of home. Grandfather would know what to do!
Pushing open the familiar, time-worn wooden door of the herb shop, the rich aroma of liquorice root, angelica, and tangerine peel washed over him, easing his frayed nerves a fraction. The shop was empty. Grandfather Shaw stood with his back to the door, meticulously weighing herbs on a small brass scale under the warm, low light. His stooped silhouette seemed frailer than ever.
"Back?" Grandfather didn't turn, his voice calm, but Alan detected an uncharacteristic tautness beneath.
"Grandfather…" Alan started, words clogging his throat. He closed the door, sliding the heavy bolt home.
"Working the docks?" Grandfather turned slowly. The warm light illuminated his deeply lined face. But his eyes weren't their usual gentle, crinkled warmth. They were deep, ancient, and piercingly sharp, seeming to look straight through Alan to the fear and secrets coiled within. They swept over Alan, finally fixing on his face with a heavy, knowing weight. "Or… did you go somewhere you shouldn't? See things… best left unseen?"
Alan's heart plummeted. He knew! Grandfather knew everything! The fragile dam holding back his exhaustion and terror burst. He slumped against the door, sliding to the floor, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "Grandfather… I… I messed up… bad… at the art centre… there was this awful statue… it controlled people… Emily, she… almost… I… I don't know what happened… inside me… that power… it just came out… I…"
He stumbled through the nightmare, words tumbling out. Grandfather listened silently, his weathered face impassive, only his eyes growing brighter, darker, like a night sky gathering a storm.
When Alan described the surge of "Harmonizing" power annihilating the psychic control, Grandfather's eyelids twitched violently! His hand on the scale tightened, knuckles white.
"…Neutralization? Annihilation?" Grandfather's voice was a low murmur, heavy with disbelief and profound gravity. "…Pure… Harmonizing force? You… you actually manifested it to that extent…" A complex storm of emotions flashed in his eyes – shock, deep worry, and… a sliver of long-buried fear. "Child… do you realize… you lit a beacon… visible for miles in the dark…"
Grandfather set the scale down, the movement slow, deliberate, as if the small weights were anchors. He moved to the window, lifting the heavy curtain just a fraction. His clouded gaze scanned the quiet, neon-and-shadow-dappled street outside. Night had deepened; foot traffic dwindled.
"Too late…" Grandfather let the curtain fall, turning to face Alan. The warm light cast a long, heavy shadow behind him. The lines on his face seemed deeper, etched with resolve and weary resignation. "The Hounds… have caught the scent. Faster than I feared."
"Hounds?" Alan's heart hammered. "The… the Wardens? Or… the hooded one from the gallery?"
"Likely both." Grandfather's voice was steel. He didn't look at Alan now. Instead, he moved with sudden purpose to the back of an ancient cabinet of drawers. He opened a hidden compartment and carefully withdrew a small, rectangular box made of dark, fragrant sandalwood. Intricate Eastern cloud patterns and strange sigils were carved into its surface, speaking of age. Grandfather cradled the box protectively against his chest, as if it held something more precious than life.
Then, he strode to the center of the shop floor. He took a deep breath. His stooped posture seemed to straighten subtly. The gentle aura of the old herbalist vanished, replaced by a palpable sense of deep-rooted strength and unwavering focus. His hands lifted slowly, fingers tracing intricate, arcane patterns in the air before him with a fluid, ancient grace. As he moved, the air itself seemed to stir. Faint, almost imperceptible currents of bluish-green energy began to gather and flow.
Alan felt it! The shop's ambient, herb-infused Anima, usually calm and diffuse, was being gathered and guided by Grandfather in ways Alan couldn't comprehend! Dim, bluish-green points of light began to shimmer into existence at specific points around the doors, windows, and walls – like ancient pressure points – weaving an intangible energy field that embraced the entire "Bai Cao Tang"!
"Gr-Grandfather?" Alan gasped, stunned. He'd never seen this!
Grandfather didn't answer. His movements accelerated, his expression hardening with intense concentration, sweat beading on his temples. The intangible field solidified, radiating a sense of deep resilience and enduring vitality, like an invisible suit of pliant, unyielding armor woven around the old wooden structure.
"Remember, Alan!" Grandfather's voice was sharp with unprecedented urgency. "Whatever happens, stay behind me! Guard your mind! Do not… recklessly use your power again! It will only draw them faster! Only at the brink of death!"
As the last word left his lips—
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
The glass in several street-facing windows shattered simultaneously! Not smashed, but imploded as if crushed by immense, invisible force from outside! Shards exploded inward like deadly rain!
Then—
KRAKOOM—!!!
The heavy, iron-banded wooden door of "Bai Cao Tang" exploded inwards as if struck by a battering ram! The solid wood buckled and splintered violently! The thick metal bolt shrieked in protest! Dust and wood fragments rained down!
The protective energy field Grandfather had woven flared violently! Bluish-green ripples surged across its surface like a pond struck by a boulder! The resilient "armor" held, strained to its limits against the overwhelming force, groaning but not yet broken!
"They're here!" Grandfather roared, yanking Alan behind him. His thin frame became an unyielding bulwark between his grandson and the shattered doorway. Clutching the sandalwood box, his eyes blazing with fierce light, he stared fixedly at the mangled remains of the door, the faint currents of bluish-green energy around him swirling faster.
Outside, in the darkness beyond the ruined threshold, the silhouettes of several figures, radiating cold, predatory malice and destructive intent, stood starkly visible against the flickering neon glow – monstrous shapes poised to strike.