The tavern "Dustbowl" was steeped in its usual heavy, subdued atmosphere. An old sandworm fang mounted on the wall caught the white afternoon light slanting through the entrance, casting a long shadow across the floor. Behind the counter, the owner, Morgan Husk, was polishing glasses as he always did. His brown hair, streaked with gray, was slicked back, and his deep gray eyes swept leisurely across the room. The missing little finger on his right hand was a relic of frostbite from his caravan guard days. The large scar on his left forearm told the story of countless battlefields. The crowd was still sparse; in the corner, a single regular informant nursed a glass of Sandfire. An over-polished glass on the counter caught the light and glinted. That was when it happened. A heavy thud sounded from the back door of the tavern. Morgan set down the glass and walked slowly toward the noise. With a practiced motion, he rested his hand on the holster at his hip as he opened the back door. Sprawled there was a man caked in sand and blood. His tattered merchant's clothes were dyed gray with dust, patches of it stiffened with dried, black blood. Below his left knee, a crude emergency dressing—just strips of cloth wrapped and tied—still seeped fresh blood. He looked to be in his mid-forties. Skin seared by the harsh desert sun was covered in deeply etched wrinkles. The man had crawled, dragging himself, all the way to Morgan's feet. "[whispers]...Help me." The voice was hoarse, trembling faintly. Morgan immediately crouched down, hauled the man up by the shoulders, and dragged him inside. He sat him on the kitchen floor, grabbed a first-aid kit from the shelf, and swiftly assessed the wound. "[serious]You've been shot. ...Three days ago, at least. It's a wonder you held out this long." The bullet was still inside. Morgan untied the filthy cloth and, as the smell of seared flesh filled the air, set to work without so much as a twitch of his brow. He poured whiskey over the wound and took out a pair of sterilized tweezers. The man—Drake—clenched his teeth against the pain and began to speak in broken fragments. "[whispers]Came from... the Elma settlement. I'm... maybe the only one left alive." Morgan's fingers paused for just a moment. But he resumed his work immediately, silently probing for the bullet with the tweezers. "[serious]Elma, you said?" "[whispers]Yeah... a settlement to the northeast. A column of black armored vehicles came... attacked in the middle of the night. Everyone... my companions, the villagers... women, children..." His voice shook, and tears welled in Drake's eyes. Morgan worked the tweezers wordlessly, found the lump of lead, and pulled it out in one swift motion. Drake's body jerked violently. The blood-slicked bullet landed on the metal tray with a dull clatter. "[serious]And the girl? What happened to her? Was she taken?" Drake looked up at Morgan, startled. "[whispers]Ah... yeah. A girl named Arisa, just sixteen. The men from that convoy... they dragged her out, only her... and the rest, they just shot..." Morgan threaded a suture needle through the wound, his expression utterly unchanged as he continued. "[serious]Do you know the name of the organization?" "[whispers]Grief. That's what they called themselves. Men with a plant tattoo on their left shoulder. The commander was a young man with silver hair and an eyepatch." Morgan's hands stopped, just for an instant. Then he resumed suturing. Silver hair, an eyepatch—those features reminded him of someone he had once been deeply involved with. That man, back when he was still a young officer. "[serious]So... what happened to Vash?" "[whispers]You know that gunman?" "[serious]An old, unwanted bond. Where did that idiot go?" "[whispers]That gunman... he came to the smoldering ruins of the settlement. While I was hiding under the bodies, he was there all night... and then, just before dawn, he went after the convoy alone. Headed north." Morgan finished the sutures and covered the wound with a clean cloth. He stood, took a bottle of Sandfire from the shelf, poured the amber liquid into a glass, and handed it to Drake. "[serious]Drink. It'll warm you up." Drake accepted the glass with trembling hands and took a mouthful. Morgan placed a hand on the counter, his deep gray eyes gleaming quietly. They were the eyes of a seasoned warrior who had once roamed countless battlefields. (*That bastard Vash... off on another reckless solo crusade.*) Morgan cursed inwardly. Chasing Grief alone was tantamount to suicide. Especially considering the convoy's likely size. Even so, Vash would go. And Morgan couldn't just stand by and watch it happen. "Hey, Drake. Tell me more. Every detail." □ Morgan immediately mobilized his informant network. He summoned three of the Dustbowl's regular informants individually: old Jim, a former caravan scout; Ray, a young smuggler well-versed in the black market; and Mira, a merchant woman who traded with the nomads in the desert around Death Corridor. In the dim back hallway, Morgan exchanged brief words with each of them. "[serious]Find out if anyone's spotted a large armored convoy near Death Corridor within the last 48 hours. The reward is five times the usual rate. Also, gather intel on the composition of all vehicles and the appearance of any command-class personnel." Each informant nodded silently and promptly left the tavern. Several hours later. As dusk approached and the regular crowd began to trickle in, the first piece of information arrived. The intel Jim brought was a sighting of an armored convoy that had turned from northeast to southwest, heading deep into the desert while avoiding the Seventh Ruin area. But the decisive fragment came from Ray. "[serious]Morgan-san, I've got a weird story for you." Ray spoke in a hushed voice from across the counter. The slender young smuggler looked more tense than usual, clutching his glass of Sandfire. "[serious]It's a rumor about the second-in-command in that convoy. I heard it in the Durahnport black market, and the description of this woman was creepily detailed. Reddish-brown hair streaked with white, tied in a single tail, and on her left arm, an old-model extraction device—" In that instant, Morgan quietly placed the cigarette he'd been holding into the ashtray. "[serious]An extraction device on her left arm. And amber-colored eyes, I'd wager." "[surprised]Huh... yeah, that's right. How did you know?" Morgan didn't answer, just watched the thin wisp of smoke rising from his cigarette. His eyes were looking at a battlefield from the past. (*Kestra Vael... So you were still alive.*) Over a decade ago, there had been an incident where a plant in Durahnport nearly went into overload meltdown. Morgan, who had rushed to the scene as a caravan guard, had confronted a young female engineer trying to control the runaway reaction. She was Kestra Vael—still a teenager back then, but already rumored to be a prodigy in plant engineering. In the end, the plant was barely brought under control, but many people died in the process. And Morgan knew: if Kestra was in Grief's technical core, this incident was no mere slaughter. Any plan she was involved in always had a technical objective related to plants. The abduction of the girl, Arisa, was likely— "[serious]Ray, good work. I'll leave your payment with Mira later." As Ray left the counter, Morgan stood before the shortwave radio set installed against the wall. He turned the dial on the old machine, trying to transmit information to Vash. But the signal conditions deep in the desert lacked the range. Only static hissed from the speaker. (*No good.*) Morgan switched off the radio. He had no choice but to set up a relay of messengers through third parties. But that would take time. Vash was likely already deep in the desert, pursuing the convoy. Before the information could reach him, that fool would reach his limit. There was still a way to act—one more card to play. □ The Caravane Noir raced across the desert. The technical room at the center of the convoy was bathed in the pale light of fluorescent lamps. Old-world monitors embedded across the walls displayed multiple data streams, and in the center of the room sat a biometric authentication experimental apparatus, tangled with complex cables and thin tubes. Arisa was seated before that apparatus. Both arms were fixed to the chair by metal restraints, and several fine needles were inserted into her veins. Dressed only in a thin garment resembling a hospital gown, her body was connected to tubes extending from the device, slowly extracting blood and lacrimal gland secretions. Her silver-white hair, long enough to reach her waist, clung to her forehead with sweat, and her pale aquamarine eyes were half-closed with exhaustion. At the back of the room, Kestra Vael operated a terminal, analyzing data. Her deep crimson hair was tied up high, and her amber eyes tracked the numbers on the monitor. The thin sword scar on her right cheek stood out starkly white under the fluorescent light. The iron door opened, and Galen Vollhardt entered. His short silver-gray hair was immaculately neat as always, not a strand out of place, and his deep, dark-blue right eye swept coldly across the room. Beneath his black eyepatch, the golden prosthetic eye implanted with plant cells glimmered faintly. The index finger of his right hand twitched slightly, an unconscious habit. Galen stood before Arisa and pointed to a large map on the wall. A full map of the planet No Man's Land. Kaledo City, Durahnport, the Elma settlement—each location was marked with a red dot. "[cold]Listen well, Arisa." Arisa lifted her face. Her eyes, wet with tears, looked straight back at Galen. "[cold]Absolute Zero—this is the ultimate weapon left behind by Knives. It will trigger a chain reaction of plant overloads, absorbing all bio-energy within a radius of several hundred kilometers. The moment its activation is complete, human civilization on this planet ends." His voice was quiet, as if a teacher delivering a lecture. Cold, flat, a tone utterly devoid of anything resembling emotion. "[cold]Its activation requires biometric authentication. And the sole key compatible with it is you. Your blood, your tears, your very existence will bring the great cause to completion." Galen traced a point on the map with his finger. The Seventh Cradle—the site of the Seventh City's annihilation. "[cold]This is the final destination for everything. In that dead land, we will harness the energy of the plant remnants and activate Absolute Zero. Currently, the biometric data required to generate the authentication code for the first phase of the activation sequence is being successfully extracted from your samples. Soon, the plan will enter its decisive trajectory." Arisa kept her lips pressed firmly together, staring at the map. Hundreds of thousands—no, even more people would die. And she would be the key to it. The man before her was explaining it all so matter-of-factly. "[cold]Hundreds of thousands will be neutralized. But it is a necessary sacrifice. The truth that Knives saw through—humanity is nothing more than an existence that exploits plants, a blight upon this very planet. You have been chosen for its purification." Hundreds of thousands. The number echoed deep in Arisa's ears. She slowly closed her eyes. Her long eyelashes trembled, and beneath her closed lids, something seemed to break. It wasn't fear. A deeper sorrow, a resignation to everything, settled over her face. Galen observed her reaction in silence. The index finger of his right hand twitched slightly. His prosthetic eye scanned Arisa's biometric data, simultaneously recording her heart rate, blood pressure, and perspiration levels. "[cold]Kestra, begin the experiment." "[serious]Understood." As Kestra operated the terminal, the experim