The Culprit

Inside the lab, silence reigned.

The remaining level-nine Peculiars stood in Lyra's way, their eyes blank yet filled with an eerie determination.

Despite the brutality they'd just witnessed, they threw themselves forward without hesitation, almost as if offering themselves up to buy Westros more time.

Lyra wasn't in the mood for long fights. With a flick of her hand, a wave of ice spread from her feet, freezing the Peculiars in place for a crucial three seconds.

Three seconds was all she needed.

The sounds of combat were swift and brutal. By the time she moved on, the lab floor was littered with frozen limbs and lifeless bodies.

At the lab's core, Westros was wrapping up his work. Holding his hand in a claw-like shape, he summoned an unnatural pull, and the experimental subjects inside glass chambers convulsed.

One by one, Crystal Cores tore from their foreheads, drawn into a dark, swirling void in his palm.