Back in the human era, gladiatorial matches between biohumans were one of humanity’s favorite forms of entertainment. They fueled massive gambling rings—which was exactly why private matches between biohumans were forbidden.
But if a biohuman—or their owner—insisted anyway, there were three rules that had to be met:
First: the two gladiators had to be of equal rank.
Second: the fight had to take place inside an arena.
Third: the match had to end in death.
If all three conditions were satisfied, the challenger could throw down an Evil Moon Beast claw in front of the challenged fighter—declaring a battle to the death. The other side had to accept. And once the challenge was issued, the challenger couldn’t back out.
So when Little White declared her challenge, Garrick’s expression flickered through a whole storm of emotions. He clearly hadn’t expected things to go this far this fast.
Bit and Merc exchanged a look. Even for Little White, this felt… extreme.
Bit stepped forward. “Little White, maybe we should at least hear what his boss has to say first?”
“Yeah,” Merc added. “Your enemy is here. He’s not going anywhere. And we’ll help you when the time comes. Don’t rush this.”
“This is my business,” Little White snapped without turning around.
Then, realizing she’d bitten too hard, she forced out a colder, flatter explanation.
“You don’t understand. If his master is here, then I guarantee there isn’t a single decent person in this tower. It’s full of human trash.”
Garrick’s mouth twitched, like he was trying to keep smiling through a headache. “That’s too much. We’re humanity’s last hope.”
“Then humanity deserves extinction,” Little White said, ruthless.
Garrick’s smile finally slipped. He inhaled, then put it back on—thin and controlled.
“Fine. I misspoke earlier,” he said, voice careful. “You’re right. We should all forget the gladiator identity. Lord Dalton appointed me a Glimmer Guard. My job is to protect every person in this tower.”
He bent down, picked up the throwing knife from the ground, flipped it around by the handle, and offered it back.
“So I truly can’t hand Dr. Thurso over to you.”
Little White didn’t take the knife. “Then stop talking and fight. That way you don’t have to pretend you’re being ‘put in a hard position.’”
Garrick’s eyes hardened for the briefest instant—then he shoved it down and tossed the knife toward Bit instead.
He turned back to Little White, smile returning, and reached out as if to pat her left shoulder.
“How about we—”
He meant it as a calming gesture.
But Little White’s entire body was drawn tight like a full bowstring. At that moment, any touch meant one thing.
Combat.
She slid her right foot half a step, angled her torso away, and cut in with her hand like a blade—stripping along Garrick’s arm toward his throat.
Garrick blinked, caught off guard by the sudden strike. His own combat instincts lit instantly. He didn’t pull his hand back. Instead, he dropped his elbow, rotated his forearm onto centerline, and caught her palm with his arm.
Little White withdrew the hand—but didn’t withdraw the attack.
With a sharp cry, she launched up, driving her elbow point toward Garrick’s chin.
The angle was vicious. The speed was brutal. If it landed, his jaw would have shattered.
Garrick had to retreat half a step, barely avoiding it.
Little White’s spinning back kick followed immediately. He ducked—and her other foot snapped in with a heel strike, nearly taking his face off.
In three seconds, Little White threw more than ten strikes.
She didn’t give an inch of ground. Every single move hunted his head and throat. Garrick had been caught by surprise and couldn’t counter even once—forced to block, twist, and slip under her storm of attacks.
Three more seconds passed.
Garrick was already clearly losing.
He realized it, too. With a roar, he chose to pay a price—taking a sweeping kick across the body so he could force his right fist forward toward Little White’s face.
Little White didn’t dodge.
She snapped her left forearm across, bracing it with her right palm, as if she intended to take the punch head-on.
Bit’s processors screamed warnings. He knew that technique—an interception and redirection.
But Garrick’s raw strength was on another level. If he threw even a fraction of full power into that punch, Little White’s arm could snap.
“No!” Bit blurted. “Dodge!”
It was too late.
The fist connected—
And yet there was no impact sound.
At the instant of contact, Little White had already shifted off the line. She slid perfectly away from the punch’s peak and trapped the arm at the elbow crease, using angle instead of force.
Garrick’s face was now completely exposed in front of her.
All she had to do was swing a hammer-fist into his nose, then chop upward into his chin. Two clean, brutal hits.
But both of them had misread the moment.
Garrick hadn’t used even thirty percent of his power. His balance hadn’t been compromised.
The second he realized his arm was trapped, he snapped the fist back and tried to wrench it outward to fling Little White away.
Little White refused to release. She clung to his arm like a chain.
So Garrick started whipping her—left, right, left—like she was the end of a flail.
When he still couldn’t shake her, his fifth whip changed direction: he slammed her downward.
Halfway through the move, Garrick’s eyes widened.
Stupid.
The force he’d just created was a gift.
Little White used it.
She flipped over his head, borrowing the momentum he’d given her, and her legs snapped shut around his neck.
Before Garrick could react, Little White twisted her hips and drove his head into the ground.
Boom.
Stars exploded behind Garrick’s eyes. His world spun. Pure instinct made him cover his head as Little White hammered him with a rapid series of strikes.
Then he felt it.
Cold.
A blade at his throat.
He knew what it meant. He shut his eyes and waited to die.
Seconds passed.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes and saw Little White standing over him, looking down with a flat, murderous calm.
“Can you take me now?” she asked.
“No,” Garrick said instantly. “Do it. Kill me.”
Little White stared for a few heartbeats… then withdrew the dagger from her own throat and stepped back. She drew her twin blades from her waist.
Garrick frowned, confused.
“You didn’t use your full strength,” Little White said. “If I end you like this, you’ll never accept it. Go get your warhammer. We’ll do it properly.”
Garrick shook his head. “I came to welcome you. Not to fight you.”
Before Little White could answer, a young voice called down from the tower’s steps.
“Stop fighting already. Lord Dalton is tired of waiting.”
Bit, Merc, and Little White all snapped their heads toward the sound.
Two boys sat side by side on the steps like they’d been there the whole time—twelve or thirteen years old, dark-skinned, and identical down to the smallest detail.
Bit pinged Merc privately.
When did those two get here?
Merc’s reply came after a few seconds.
Didn’t notice. And… they’re not human.
Bit stared harder. He could see it now. “Not biohuman either,” he muttered aloud. “Then what are they?”
Little White didn’t bother whispering. “Who are you two?”
One boy answered, expression calm. “My name is Ollie.”
The other spoke immediately after. “My name is Ofer.”
Ollie continued, businesslike. “Lord Dalton asked us to tell you this: he can consider your request. But you need to go inside and talk with him first.”
“Why doesn’t he come out himself?” Little White demanded.
Ofer’s expression didn’t change. “It would be… troublesome… for him to come out.”
Little White hesitated.
Garrick stepped in. “Don’t worry. It isn’t a trap.”
Bit and Merc backed him up with a few quick words, and at last Little White gave a reluctant nod.
“Fine,” she said. “Lead the way.”
Garrick’s smile returned as if a switch flipped. He bowed with an exaggerated “after you” gesture and walked toward the tower’s door. Bit, Merc, and Little White followed. The two boys trailed behind them.
The first floor of the tower held no facilities—only a gleaming steel inner wall.
At four points around the circular hall stood four round elevators.
Garrick led them into one and entered the destination: Floor 301.
Bit glanced at the display. “How many floors does this tower have?”
“Five hundred eighty-eight,” Garrick said.
Then, as the elevator began to rise, he launched into an explanation like he’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
“Diameter: 180 meters. Height: 2,852 meters. It runs straight up to the cavern ceiling. Construction took more than a hundred years. It was built jointly by the Dalton family and the government—so Lord Dalton holds a fifty-percent ownership stake.”
He tapped the wall as if patting the tower itself.
“Edean Tower was originally designed as a Doomsday Seed Vault. But over the last thousand years, we’ve made some… adjustments.”
“Doomsday Seed Vault?” Merc’s voice sharpened. “How many seeds are stored here?”
“All of them,” Garrick said simply.
Bit raised a brow ridge. “Including humans?”
“Of course.” Garrick didn’t even blink. “Floors 2 through 100 store the seeds of every plant. Floors 100 through 200 store embryos of every animal. Floors 200 through 300 are research levels. Floors 300 through 400 are human hibernation pods. Floors 400 through 500 hold one hundred and twenty batches of ten thousand human embryos. The rest are systems—equipment decks, data rooms, that kind of thing.”
Little White’s eyes widened. “Human embryos… are here too?”
“And that many?” Merc said, genuinely startled.
Bit’s voice went cold. “Plando humans.”
“That was the initial plan,” Garrick said. “It isn’t like that anymore. After several pilot runs, large numbers died to riots. Right now, there are only around seven hundred thousand left.”
Ding.
The elevator stopped at Floor 277.
The doors opened, and Ollie and Ofer stepped out. Before leaving, they turned back and smiled at Bit, Merc, and Little White—like children being polite.
Through the open doors, the three of them caught a glimpse of the floor beyond: massive test tubes everywhere. In one, a huge lizard floated in fluid. In others, separated organs. Robots moved through it all, busy and methodical.
Little White’s stomach tightened as she remembered Uguwa’s story.
The doors shut again.
The elevator continued.
When it finally reached Floor 301, the doors slid open and the three of them stepped out.
Little White tilted her head back—and froze.
From this level upward, the floors were gone.
Hibernation pods clung to the inner wall of the tower, stacked layer after layer, rising so high they vanished into the darkness overhead. Rotor drones cruised between the pods, monitoring the sleeping humans with constant care—like bees guarding a hive.
Little White scanned the level, not seeing the person she wanted.
“Where is that bastard Soren?” she demanded.
Garrick walked to one of the pod stations and lifted a wired headband—an arched ring meant to rest against the skull.
He held it out toward Little White.
“Lie down,” he said. “Put on the Consciousness Neural Synchronizer. You’ll meet Lord Dalton immediately.”
Little White frowned. “He’s hiding in a virtual world?”
Garrick flashed a smile he clearly thought was charming.
“Exactly.”