Chapter 1

The nation emerged from a great calamity 40 years ago; countless people and places awaited restoration and recovery. Society began to return to normalcy, and the chaos finally subsided.

Subsequently, the Natural Sciences Research Institute (NSRI) was established to investigate odd situations that arose before and after the nation's founding.

The institute was initially pegged as a secret research institute. However, as more unexplainable incidents were unearthed following the deepening of the research, the NSRI's researchers started showing up at the frontlines. They carried out unknown missions that ordinary people could not complete.

The NSRI's higher-ups gradually realized that no matter how advanced their technology and how rigorously trained their people were, there were still many things that mere mortals couldn't resolve.

So, a field department was established, and various people with special abilities were recruited to join the team. They would carry out those unexplainable missions.

Over the past 40 years, the NSRI had made outstanding contributions to advancements in technology, defense, economics, and various other fields. However, due to the organization's secretive nature, its members could only remain nameless heroes—no one knew their contributions to society.

At the same time, they had to face forces that made even them shudder while secretly maintaining society's peace and order.

After a mysterious and unexpected accident 29 years ago, the NSRI invoked the Eclipse Protocol. Unfortunately, the mission ended in failure after four years of relentless research and effort, and it was temporarily shelved.

Yet it was at that moment that a mysterious force dealt a massive blow to the NSRI. It suffered an overwhelming defeat despite already having various elites at its disposal. The force managed to steal the product of the Eclipse Protocol's research and escape with it.

Despite secretly mobilizing the army to scour the nation for the force and research product, the NSRI returned empty-handed.

Now, the Eclipse Protocol was surfacing again.

Chapter 2

Atlas Bright shut his eyes, feeling tired as he thought about everything that had happened thus far. It had been a long time since he'd last felt this exhausted—it had barely happened since he'd mastered his abilities.

The thick scent of blood and gunpowder enveloped him and wafted into his nostrils. The blood belonged to his comrades and enemies, but some was his own.

Would he survive this?

He didn't know. All he knew was that he'd done what he needed to do; he had no regrets. He was not a hero—he'd only done what he was supposed to.

Right and wrong, good and evil… The line between them was thin and blurry. Life also turned out to be ridiculous sometimes.

Perhaps he had to start recalling everything from the beginning.

Chapter 3 Captive

Atlas Bright used to be a police detective not too long ago, but he wasn't one anymore. He'd lost his right eye along with his identity as a police officer, but it wasn't something that devastated or upset him.

Why? Because he could no longer see those weird and unexplainable things after losing his eye. Perhaps this was what it felt like when something ended—he felt much more normal and relaxed.

The story started half a month ago. At the time, there'd been a series of serial murders. The victims were all women, and the final one was Atlas' wife, Selene Lark.

That day, she'd wanted to surprise him and tell him she was pregnant. But because Atlas had failed to show up on time, it made her seem alone. The murderers had set their sights on her and ended her life.

Where had Atlas been that day? On his way to meet Selene, he'd noticed a suspicious car that was one of the clues in the serial murder case. He'd decided to go after it. Coincidentally, he got into an accident while trailing the suspect and ended up with a head injury. From then on, something had changed in his right eye.

Two significant events happened in Atlas' life on that day. The first was the death of his beloved wife, Selene. She would no longer be by his side. The second was that he started seeing odd things with his right eye.

To this day, Atlas felt like he'd lost his mind or was trapped in a freakish dream. Everything had happened so suddenly and all at once—the woman who Selene had seemingly possessed, the suspects he'd murdered, his right eye that could see ghosts… the list went on.

Of course, all of that had disappeared at this point, including his right eye.

After being "shot dead", the murder suspects had told Atlas that this was just the beginning. Atlas had responded that everything was over—the loss of his mysterious yet freaky right eye meant that things had ended.

He knew he would no longer be affected by those seemingly hallucinatory things once he lost his right eye. They would stop clouding his judgment and rationality; he could maintain a clear mind.

Since everything was over, he no longer wanted to be involved in those mystical matters. That was why he'd done something crazy—he'd grabbed a glass shard from the floor and stabbed himself in the right eye. Sure enough, his world had immediately quietened down.

To Atlas, nothing mattered anymore, including his right eye. His only family, Selene, had died, and he'd killed her murderers in revenge. There was nothing else for him to live for.

At that moment, Atlas was locked up in a place that resembled a jail cell. It had iron bars but no windows, and he was alone. Aside from the bare cement walls and a thin mattress, the cell was empty. Someone would bring him food at fixed hours daily, but they never answered him no matter what he asked.

These people didn't wear uniforms or have symbols on their clothes. Based on Atlas' years of experience as a police detective, he was positive these people weren't deaf. They could hear him speak—their eyes flickered when he asked them questions, but they didn't answer him for reasons yet unknown.

Atlas didn't know where he was locked up. He'd found himself in this cell after regaining consciousness. Half a month had passed since then, but he hadn't been questioned or spoken to. He'd merely been locked in that bare room.

Without the watch on his wrist telling him the time, he wouldn't know how long had passed. There were no windows to show him whether it was day or night, after all.

Atlas' memory started turning wonky after being confined alone for so long. Perhaps everything that had happened earlier had overstimulated his senses. Once again, he wondered whether he was dreaming or hallucinating.

His right eye was most definitely gone, though. He only had a black eye patch over the empty socket. Doctors had checked on him every other day for the past half-month to tend to his wound and observe it, but they didn't say anything to him, either.

If his memory served him right, Atlas remembered he'd illegally carried a firearm while suspended from duty. He'd also tracked down Selene's murderers before shooting them dead. Though he knew they were the perpetrators, he hadn't had conclusive evidence to prove their guilt. So, he himself had become a criminal.

Life had truly pulled a huge prank on him—he'd gone from being a celebrated police officer to a jailed criminal. He'd fled the scene of the murder after stabbing himself in the right eye, but his identity as a former policeman had ultimately pushed him to turn himself in despite knowing it was hard for anyone to capture him if he was serious about escaping.

Of course, there was another reason he'd chosen to turn himself in. Even though he still didn't know whether he'd done the right thing, he was willing to take the blame for the woman who'd looked like Selene. If he hadn't turned himself in, she would've been buried while being known as a murderer.

Yet Atlas hadn't been arrested while awaiting his sentence. He hadn't been thrown behind bars, nor had he been taken in for questioning. Instead, he'd been sent to this place that resembled a prison cell but wasn't.

He was sure he wasn't in prison because all inmates had to wear uniforms and have their heads shaved. Heck, even the food wouldn't be as good as what he'd had for the past half-month.

More importantly, none of the things he'd had on him, aside from his phone, had been removed from him before he'd been locked up. All his personal effects were still intact.

Atlas distinctly remembered his colleague, Michael Manson, taking him away from the police station the other day. He didn't know his original destination, but he knew Michael would never break the law.

He also didn't believe his colleagues and captain would betray him. They were criminal investigators who constantly faced the line between life and death. They lived and worked in close quarters, and the danger they faced was second only to that of anti-narcotics officers. They were comrades who shared life and death.

If even they couldn't be trusted, there weren't many others that Atlas could put his faith in. Looking at it from a different perspective—even if they had betrayed him, what did he have that was worth betraying?

Still, there was no doubt that Atlas had passed out in Michael's car. Where was Michael, then?

Now that Atlas had gone missing, would the police make him a wanted fugitive? What had happened to Theresa Smith, his colleague who'd loaned him her gun? Would his captain, Peter Jones, get into trouble for trying to help him?

Just then, the familiar sound of the door creaking open rang out. Atlas turned to see who it was. To his surprise, the visitor wasn't a doctor or one of the mysterious people who delivered his food. Instead, it was a man with a nondescript face. He was about 5'7", which was around Atlas' height. He looked a little skinny.

Despite being bereft of one eye, Atlas still remembered his training as a police detective and habitually appraised the man. People's appearances often reflected their character. It was believed that before the age of 30, one's appearance reflected one's parents' teachings. But after 30, it reflected one's own behavior.

In other words, one's appearance was shaped by one's heart and mindset. The man was evidently over 30—he looked like the honest, down-to-earth type. There was nothing sly or cunning about him, and he dressed plainly in a moss-green shirt.

It was hard to tell the brand of the watch he wore. It was well-made but definitely not lavish—it probably wasn't too expensive. His dark gray pants and plain leather shoes completed the look, making him seem like every other regular person who came from a medium-sized city.

Still, Atlas knew not to judge a book by its cover. He'd seen murderers who looked like every other person, too. As a police officer, he knew better than to let any detail slip. Sure enough, upon scrutiny, he noticed something amiss with the man.

His shoes looked plain, but his footfalls sounded heavy. They didn't match with his weight. His every gesture and action exuded composure and dignity. Though modest, he carried himself with confidence. He was probably a man who'd seen enough in life.

More importantly, there was a sense of steadiness behind his composure. People generally showed a sense of nervousness when facing strangers, but this man showed nothing of the sort.

He wasn't a regular man. His temples protruded slightly, as did the veins on his neck, which were probably the result of frequently using his strength. He also exuded a sense of command. It was an air that only strong people gave off—one had to be capable if one could carry oneself with dominance.

The man's contrasting air and overbearing demeanor made Atlas feel somewhat at a loss. He'd only seen something similar in a fugitive he'd captured in the past—the fugitive had been equally plain and skinny as the man before him.

However, Atlas remembered it had taken almost ten men to subdue the fugitive, who'd even managed to hurt two of his colleagues. The only difference was that the fugitive had looked murderous—this man didn't.

Atlas suddenly laughed at himself. He was no longer a police officer, so what did it matter to him what this man was like? Even if the latter was a pirate, he couldn't do anything about it. He was also a wanted criminal who was now held captive—he was better off worrying about himself than others.

The man approached Atlas and looked at him imperiously, his plain yet domineering demeanor oppressive. Out of psychological resistance and the desire to protect himself, Atlas lowered his head silently. He used his peripheral vision to observe while listening intently. He tensed, ready to react in case the man suddenly turned hostile.

The man didn't speak, either. He merely watched Atlas icily until Atlas couldn't take it anymore. He looked up and asked, "What do you want from me, and who are you people? Please leave if you can't answer me."

"My name is Alaric Wolfe. Come with me—I need you for something," Alaric said calmly. His tone was devoid of emotion, but it was clear there was no room for Atlas to reject.

Atlas laughed. "Sorry, but I'm not obligated to follow your orders. You're not a prison warden."

"Do you know this person?" Alaric showed him a photo.

Atlas was taken aback—it was a photo of Theresa. He'd been suspended from duty not too long ago, so he'd handed in his badge and firearm. He'd later borrowed Theresa's gun. She'd loaned it to him, thinking he only wanted to keep it with him as a threat so it would be easier for him to investigate.

She didn't expect him to be so fixated on revenge—he'd shot the murderers dead with the borrowed gun.

Theresa was young; she'd loaned him the gun out of trust. Because of that, Atlas had been mad at himself for being so rash. He'd be a piece of shit if he got Theresa in trouble and ruined her future due to his rashness.

When he realized what Alaric was insinuating, he shot to his feet and barked, "What are you going to do?"

"This gun took two lives, and Officer Smith didn't report this to her superiors despite knowing the truth. At best, she can be charged with negligence and harboring a criminal. At worst, she'll be known as your accomplice." Alaric sneered. It made a chill run down Atlas' spine.

Atlas snapped, "I only killed one person! The other was dead when I got there; I shot the body to vent my anger! It's easy enough to find out the cause of death—a gunshot isn't it? Besides, I was the one who pulled the trigger. I threatened Theresa into giving me the gun. She has nothing to do with this, and I'll bear the full consequence!"

"It's not up to you to decide how things go—it's up to us. You're a criminal now, so there's no doubt that you'll have to bear the necessary responsibility. As for her…" Alaric flicked the photo and sneered again. "Everything is up for negotiation as long as you work for us.

"I know you feel like you don't have anything left to live for, so threatening you won't amount to anything. However, you'll need to consider Theresa and your other colleagues, right? People can't live for just themselves, and you're not the selfish type. Don't you agree?"

"What do you want me to do? And who the hell are you people?" Atlas backed away, looking defeated. He sighed heavily.

"Does it matter? Do you think you have a choice?" Alaric asked in return.

After a while, Atlas followed Alaric down a long and dark corridor. The door to his cell shut behind him. He didn't dare run or retaliate because Alaric had leverage on him. There was no point in killing Alaric—it would only speed up Theresa's ruin.

Atlas had no choice but to continue walking, even if he had no idea where he was headed.

Chapter 4 Brain Death

"You're dumb." This was Alaric's opinion of Atlas.

Atlas looked at him, not knowing why he suddenly said that. He had a pretty good opinion of himself—he'd always been one of the best police detectives in the police force.

Though he hadn't solved any nationally sensational cases, he'd still been an irreplaceable pillar in his team and could even be considered a leading figure. No one had ever called him dumb, jokes aside.

Atlas and Alaric reached the end of the corridor and entered a room that was similar to a surveillance room. There were many screens inside—evidently, Atlas hadn't been the only one held captive there. He hadn't seen anyone in the cells he'd passed earlier, though.

Before he could take a closer look at the surveillance footage, the person in the room turned all the screens off and left the room. Alaric and Atlas were left alone inside.

Alaric sat down and waved a hand before a laser keyboard projector, making a laser keyboard appear on the table. Keyboards like that had been around for a long time. Though they got better as technology advanced and were easy to carry around, they still weren't exactly user-friendly.

They were mostly used for emergency work or to show off. If one used such a keyboard for gaming, it would probably drive one mad with its slow reaction time.

However, it was clear that the laser keyboard Alaric used wasn't like the regular ones. His fingers flew over the keys, and the keyboard reacted swiftly. One of the screens turned on, and a screen popped up. It was labeled as Atlas' file.

Upon clicking it, the screen showed Atlas' experiences, achievements, and an analysis of his statistics. They were as follows:

IQ: 70

EQ: 65

Impulsivity Index: 89

Physical Ability: 55

Logic: 60

Special Ability: Astral Sight

Atlas understood some of the statistics but was baffled by the others. Fortunately, Alaric started explaining the situation to him. "These are based on a full score of 100. You're bad, but you're not the worst. Nobody is perfect, but I can assure you I wasn't making things up when calling you dumb.

"Even based on a score of 100, having a score of 70 for your IQ means you're not the sharpest tool in the shed. You're a regular person."

Alaric looked at him. "Now, why did I say you're dumb? In truth, it wasn't too hard to get to the bottom of the case you previously encountered. If you'd just been a little more careful and a little less rash, things probably wouldn't have ended up the way they did.

"That's why you're dumb. As a police detective, you should know it's not too hard to illegally procure a gun. At most, you'd only be breaking the law."

He paused, then continued, "Yet what did you do? You borrowed a gun. The bigger mistake here is that you forgot you were using someone else's gun at a critical juncture—you even opened fire, leading to Theresa getting dragged into this mess.

"If the bullet you later fired in response to your wife's murder could be seen as a natural human reaction, then the shot you fired earlier was nothing more than a senseless act of foolishness—you only did it because your eye noticed something abnormal."

Alaric scoffed. "It's precisely because of your actions that Theresa is in even more trouble—the situation is now unexplainable. She would've been able to explain away a single shot even without our interference, and your superior would've stood up for her. Losing her gun could be considered serious, but it could also not.

"You only have yourself to blame for giving me something to threaten you with. Now, it looks like Theresa won't be getting away without a punishment, even if we don't do anything to push it. It doesn't matter whether or not you admit it."

Atlas parted his lips but couldn't make a sound. He had nothing to rebuke Alaric with—the latter was right.

Alaric continued, "If your EQ had been just a little higher, it would've made up for your lack of IQ. Unfortunately, your EQ is even lower than your IQ. That's what led to you being suspended from duty and everything else.

If not for that, you would've had a chance to resume duty and legally capture the murderers named Joe Green and Tom Brown. Don't look at me like that—I know everything about you."

He snorted. "That's not even the worst of it. Your eye could see things others couldn't, yet you didn't try to figure out why. Instead, you thought everything would be over once you stabbed yourself blind and stopped seeing those things.

"I bet that's what you thought, but I want you to know it's the dumbest thing you've done. Fortunately, you're not completely stupid… or at least not thoroughly an idiot. You would truly be a fool if you'd ended your life."

"And you're not stupid? Don't tell me you know why this change happened to me!" Atlas snapped, finally finding a chance to speak.

Alaric sighed and shook his head. "See, I told you you were dumb. You wouldn't ask such a stupid question if you weren't. Of course, I know why it happened—I also know that you didn't kill Joe and Bob White. I'm only willing to tell you about all of this because you seem to value loyalty and bonds. I wouldn't waste my breath otherwise.

"I've already explained the situation to you. From now on, you're only fit to follow orders. If you don't, Officer Smith might find herself suddenly exposed and thrown behind bars. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"What right do you have to do that? And why should I believe you? I told you you're not allowed to threaten her!" Atlas stepped forward.

Alaric sneered disdainfully. "What, are you going to hit me? She's already committed a crime. Do I need to threaten her? It looks like the strategy department is right about your Impulsivity Index—you fly off the handle at every little thing. Now, sit down!"

Atlas watched as Alaric pushed him gently, making him stagger backward and fall on his butt. In that instant, he felt like a puppet controlled by a force so strong that he couldn't ignore it. He could only let Alaric do what he wanted to him.

He was shocked, but he also secretly placed his fingers against his wrist to feel his pulse. He wanted to check his heart rate.

Based on everything that had happened, Atlas didn't think he'd been injected with or consumed any hallucinogenic substances. His heart rate was regular, and his vision was clear. He was lucid, and his emotions responded regularly. There didn't seem to be any signs pointing to hypnosis, psychological suggestion, or gas poisoning.

Could it be Alaric was secretly a martial arts expert despite his thin frame? Who the hell was he kidding? He wasn't in an action movie.

Atlas remained on the floor; Alaric didn't bother about him. The latter continued typing away on the laser keyboard, making the screens previously used for surveillance display an image of a brain.

It was a 3D model composed of neural synapses and the grooves of the cerebral cortex, and it offered an interior view of the brain. Bright particles moved within it.

Atlas was dumbstruck. As a police officer, he knew the image was of a brain and understood its basic structure. However, he didn't know what the bright particles were.

Alaric seemed to see through his ignorance and explained, "Here's a term you're definitely familiar with—brainwaves. Bioelectricity and brain waves are related and highly similar. I won't go into too much detail. In simple terms, bioelectricity is one of the vital signs of life.

"The electronic impulses transmitted by the brain form the foundation of your life, memory, emotions, and more. These aren't stored in any fixed organ. In other words, these electronic impulses are a human's soul—they're what makes you unique.

"If you should ever lose these electronic impulses, you can be declared brain dead. Once the brainstem dies, a person is gone. They won't even get the chance to enter a vegetative state. Can you understand that?"

Atlas nodded. Then, he asked, "What does that have to do with me?"

"The reason your right eye saw dead people moving and thus leading to you hearing them speak isn't because you can see their souls. Why would you be able to hear them speak if your sight is the only thing affected? All of this happened because you're brain-dead. I'm not spouting nonsense—let me finish.

"You previously got into an accident and injured your brain. For some as of yet unexplainable reasons, something mutated in you, leading to your brain resetting differently—your brainwaves are being transmitted backward. By a standard of human death more precise than modern medicine, you are, effectively, dead," Alaric said.

He continued, "The electronic impulses in your brain are different from everyone else. How should I explain this? It's as if one is made of positrons and the other of electrons, with flows moving in completely opposite directions. To put it simply, you look like every other human on the surface, but your insides are different.

"This change has appeared in your right eye—it's something like the spot where an ailment begins. All of this explains why your eye could see things others couldn't. I can't make everything else clear because it's still being researched. This is all I know."

Alaric looked at Atlas. "As for why you can see the dead speaking, it's not because you've suddenly become a medium for dead souls. You were just hallucinating. In reality, you've yet to master such a skill, which is why you allow your brain to act on its own rather than being controlled by your conscious mind.

"You can see far more than a regular person. You then analyze the situation and come to a conclusion, even going so far as to hallucinate. In other words, all the weird things you previously saw were just figments of your imagination."

He paused, then continued, "The case you encountered was relatively straightforward, or you were knowledgeable enough about the required basics, so the conclusions you reached were mostly accurate. At the same time, your hallucinations took into consideration your personal feelings, affecting the outcome.

"Still, it comes down to the same thing. The case was simple—it was just a series of serial murders. So, even if there was a slight error of judgment, it wasn't too overboard. Can you understand me when I put it that way?"

The bright particles in the image of the brain suddenly started flowing backward, and the colors changed. The electronic impulses gathered at a point near the right eye—this was probably Atlas' current situation.

"It was 'just' a series of serial murders? Wasn't that serious enough? Look, I can understand what you mean, but what do you want me to do? I've already lost my eye." Atlas got up from the floor.

Alaric said, "Your intelligence truly is worrying. I've just told you that the cause for your weird sightings is your brain, not your eye. It just happened to be channeled to your right eye. Your eye is injured, but your brain isn't affected. That's why there's a chance to save you—only a chance, mind you.

"If your upcoming surgery is a success, you'll need to focus on studying. You need to increase your knowledge in theoretical and practical aspects so that you can become a genuine researcher and contribute to the organization. It's as simple as that.

"Now, you need to work with me. You'll need to throw yourself into your work once you wake up… If you get the chance to wake up, anyway."

"What? Wake up? I won't—" Atlas was pinned down by Alaric before he could even react. Alaric held something that looked like an asthma inhaler. He pressed it firmly onto Atlas' face.

Atlas instinctively tried to fight back but couldn't do anything. He was like a child trying to fight against an adult when with Alaric. The disparity in their strengths was scary.

There was no dizziness. Atlas blacked out almost instantly. He went limp but didn't fall to the floor—Alaric grabbed his collar with one hand. It was imaginable how scarily strong Alaric was if he could hold an unconscious adult with one hand.

Alaric smiled and touched his ear. It was bare, and he didn't have any sort of earpiece that he could use to communicate with anyone. He seemed to be speaking to thin air as he said, "He's out cold again. Get ready for the surgery."

…

When Atlas woke up two days later, his head suddenly throbbed painfully. He felt like it had been hammered and split into half.

The pain came intensely, but it also faded swiftly. It was almost like the remnants of a nightmare he'd had before abruptly jolting awake.

He heard a rhythmic vibration in the room; the sunlight streamed in through the window and landed on his face. Only then did he realize he lay on a rather worn couch. He could see leaves outside the window, and he heard the cicadas.

Atlas turned his head to the side to look around the room. There were leftover takeout boxes on the coffee table beside him, and some aluminum cans had been turned into makeshift ashtrays. They were filled to the brim with stubbed-out cigarettes.

Meanwhile, a burly man whose torso was bare ran on a treadmill nearby. He seemed to sense Atlas waking up and turned to smile at him. The first thing Atlas thought was that the man was seriously tall and buff.

Suddenly, he noticed something was wrong. He wasn't using just his left eye to observe his surroundings. Could it be…

Atlas sat up on the couch and looked at the glass window above it. He saw his reflection in the glass and was stunned.

The reflection was blurry, but it was enough for him to see that his right eye was no longer blocked by a black eye patch. He had an eye again—his right eye was back! How could this be?

Chapter 5 Sixth Office of the Second Division

Atlas was dumbfounded. Regaining his right eye after losing it had surprised and pleased him so much that he couldn't speak.

The tall and burly man pressed the stop button on the treadmill, making it slow before stopping. He grabbed a towel and wiped his sweat while stepping off the treadmill. The beads of sweat trickled down his toned muscles, giving him an air of masculinity.

"What's wrong? Too surprised to speak?" He smiled. It was warm, which didn't go with his burly frame. It was even a little childish.

He approached Atlas and held out a hand, saying, "Hi, I'm Damien Swanson. You can call me Ironbull if you want—it's what all my buddies call me. You must be wondering what's wrong with your eye. Does it still hurt?"

"How did you know I'd be in pain?" Atlas asked curiously while shaking Damien's hand.

"I pretty much know what happened to you. From now on, you, me, and Captain are colleagues—comrades, even. I'm sure you'll understand what I mean by that soon enough. You've met Captain, haven't you? Alaric Wolfe. He's sharp-tongued, but he's a softie on the inside. He's also a man of few words.

"Of course, he might have said a bit more than usual when speaking to you the other day because he wanted to make you understand the situation. Whatever it is, he's a pretty nice guy. As for me, I'm sure you can now tell that I'm a chatterbox. I hope you won't find me annoying in the future," Damien said.

He continued, "I just think that people can't have fun if they're not being lively and chatty—we should talk to each other since we've been brought together. Why so serious, right? You're not as bad as Captain yet, so you should embrace your nature as soon as possible.

"What I mean by that is that you should stop being so serious. Let's chat…" Damien went on for over ten minutes, giving Atlas a headache. He'd yet to learn why he had an eye and why it had hurt.

He didn't get it. Damien was clearly a buff man who looked like the rough and blunt type. Shouldn't he have been the strong and silent type who would walk away from an explosion without even turning back? How could his personality contrast with his looks so much?

Then again, he seemed like the straightforward type. Atlas supposed a chatterbox couldn't be too bad a person.

Damien stopped to swallow his spit. He looked at Atlas, whose attention was evidently drifting, and said, "Yoohoo! Oh, you're listening. Where was I? Whatever. I forgot. Oh, right, your eye. You have a mechanical glass eye now—it looks real, doesn't it?

"The people at the research and development department aren't too bad, after all. You know what? I asked them to make me a… Sorry, I went off-topic again. Your eye is fake but much better than a real one. You have perfect vision—your eye is basically a weapon."

He continued, "As for the pain you felt earlier, it's something you'll experience once every week. The mechanical eye is linked to your nerves, and it needs to cut off the connection weekly to check itself for about a minute. Then, it will reconnect to your nerves—that's when it hurts.

"R&D said the pain is like a woman's menstrual cramps, but I know it has to be ten or a hundred times more painful than that. Don't look at me like that—I'm not a woman. It's just that I can imagine how much pain you'll be in because the glass eye connects to the nerves around your eye."

Damien added, "Besides, R&D has always liked exaggerating the good points and concealing the bad. Whatever it is, the pain is a problem that R&D has yet to overcome, so you'll have no choice but to endure the pain that comes when your nerves connect.

"Still, technology advances constantly. I'm sure there will soon be a solution for this. You're a man, so man up and take the pain in stride."

As he spoke, Alaric entered the room. He truly was different from how he'd been during his first meeting with Atlas—all he did was nod at Damien and Atlas before sitting at a table and reading a document. He didn't say anything or answer any questions.

Damien shrugged helplessly. Atlas asked, "Where is this, Damien? Who are you guys?"

Damien scratched his head. "Didn't Captain tell you? We work for the National Sciences Research Institute—we're in the Sixth Office of the Second Division of the NSRI's field department.

"2-6, got it? You and I are researchers, and Captain is the head of the office. Each office should have at least eight researchers, with one being the head and the other being the deputy head."

"Eight? Who else do we have? Didn't you say that it's just the three of us? Where are the others, then?" Atlas asked.

Damien's smile froze. He turned and got onto the treadmill again, powering it up and starting to run. Atlas was confused by this. He knew he'd said something wrong, so he didn't push for answers.

Unexpectedly, Alaric said coldly, "They've all lost their lives. That's why we needed you to join us and help rebuild 2-6. Ironbull didn't tell you how to use your eye, did he?"

"Use my eye? How should it be used?" Atlas didn't get it.

Alaric glanced at Damien, who was on the treadmill. "He uttered nonsense and not a word else. Try putting your right index and middle fingers together before placing them near your right temple. You have a microchip in your finger; it'll activate your eye when it's close to your temple.

"Your ability has been named Astral Sight. It's not because you can see ghosts—your eye is capable of many things. The higher-ups were the ones who named the ability. Go ahead and try it."

Atlas did as told and pressed his fingers together before slowly touching his temple. Suddenly, everything seemed to change.

He could see the dust floating in the air—one could usually only see it when the sun shone down on it, but Atlas could see it everywhere in the room. It danced and pranced in the air; there was something beautiful about it.

He looked down at the coffee table to see clear layers of grease on the leftover food. After staring at it for a long time, he even saw the fingerprints on it. How could this be? How could a person see a clear fingerprint without external help?

Atlas saw a man who was about 5'7" inches. He was on the skinny side, and he wore the vest that food delivery riders wore. He placed the food on the table.

The man had appeared out of nowhere; Atlas hadn't noticed him show up. The feeling was familiar yet strange—it was just like how he'd seen those dead people moving and talking!

His right hand was pulled away from his temple. The food delivery rider disappeared—he left as suddenly as he had come. Alaric was the only one who stood before Atlas; Damien was still on the treadmill. Atlas checked the clock on the wall to see that less than a minute had passed.

As a police detective, Atlas had the habit of constantly checking the time to determine when a crime had been committed and how long it had been since his investigation had commenced. It made it easier for him to record, deduce, and solve the case.

He'd habitually glanced at the clock to see that less than a minute had passed—to be accurate, only a few seconds had passed. Had he been seeing things? Even if he'd had a hallucination earlier, it had to be a few minutes long. How could it only have been seconds?

Alaric seemed to be able to read his mind. He explained, "The hallucination formed in your mind, so time and space seem to stretch out endlessly. You've yet to master the skill; that's going to take time and effort on your part. No one can teach you how to control your conscious mind, and no one knows what's going on in your mind.

"It's normal that you feel like a long time has passed even though it's only been a few seconds. Now, tell me what you saw."

Atlas told Alaric, after which the latter explained, "Let me use your earlier situation as an example. The oddity with your brain has allowed your eye to see minute details that ordinary people can't. You could say that you're seeing the extraordinary.

"For instance, you saw a fingerprint that shouldn't normally be visible. From there, you deduced the size of the finger and palm. There could be discrepancies, though. I'm not a police officer, so I don't know much about this, but you probably couldn't determine which finger the fingerprint belonged to.

"This means your overall finger length estimate could be flawed. All of this is just guesswork and rough deduction on your part, which makes the conclusion even more ambiguous."

Alaric continued, "Inferring a person's body shape and weight based on the length and width of their fingers and whorls is far from accurate. Your brain analyzed this fingerprint based on your existing knowledge to roughly outline the person's physical appearance and guessed that they were a food delivery rider, leading to the image you saw.

"This is a natural progression of your brain's thought process, and the result depends on your knowledge and logical reasoning. While your conclusions have some direction, the specifics are formed instinctively."

"So, you're saying I can control my mind to form a correct conclusion that is unknown even to myself?" Atlas asked.

Alaric nodded. "I guess your intelligence is salvageable, after all. Yes, you're right. You're not just capable of consciously directing your thoughts—it's something you must do. Consider what is useful and block out what isn't; block out your hallucinations.

"Suppress your natural reactions and subconscious processes to keep them from interfering with your thought process. If possible, you can even use your existing knowledge to deduce the unknown, reaching a conclusion you were unaware of.

"Activating your power, suppressing your reactions, and reaching a conclusion takes up a lot of your energy. Your brain might no longer be the same as everyone else's, but it still works based on the same principles."

Alaric paused and then continued, "The brain is a pure organ, so it needs pure energy to work. The human body's glucose content is its only source of energy. The glucose you need is the same as the majority of humankind—it can't be man-made… or at least, it can't be completely replaced by man-made products.

"You'll have to rely on your body to produce it. If you can't control your mind to form the right conclusion and instead allow your hallucinations to take over, it'll just be a waste of your energy. Your brain might run out of oxygen and die if it runs out of energy—that's why so many mental laborers suffer from sudden deaths.

"You're already considered brain dead by modern medicine's standards—the fact that your electronic impulses are traveling backward is already a gift from the heavens. I'm not sure whether you'll come back to life if your brain dies once more."

Atlas was baffled. After a long silence, he asked, "What do I need to do now, then?"

"Study. Learn from theory and practice; accumulate knowledge from various sources. It'll affect your conclusions. Your ability can guide our actions at specific times—you're our guide, so you can't make any mistakes. Since we don't have any missions for now, your job is just to read. You should start from encyclopedias."

Alaric turned to leave after handing Atlas a tablet. Atlas ran after him. "Wait! I want to know what this National Sciences Research Institute does!"

Alaric parted his lips to answer when a man's voice suddenly rang out. "You have a mission, 2-6. It's a C-rank mission, and the details have been sent to you. Take the newbie out for a spin."

"Got it," Alaric answered.

Atlas looked around. He didn't find a source for the voice, but he'd heard it loud and clear. Someone had spoken to him, and it had sounded like it was right in his ear.

He turned to see Damien getting dressed. Meanwhile, Alaric seemed to be packing something into his bag. He pushed a Colt M1911 in Atlas' direction and said, "Stop standing around. You'll soon see what exactly we do."