Jefferson had just put down a box and was about to pick up another when suddenly several people barged in. They were all dressed like wounded soldiers, and as soon as they entered, someone closed the warehouse door.
The leader of the group had his head wrapped in bandages, which he now removed and threw to the ground, revealing a face covered in scars, particularly around the right eye, which was bruised and bloodshot.
Jefferson recognized him immediately—they were classmates, and this was the guy who had led the group that fought him a few days ago. The others were also from the same class.
Jefferson realized what was happening, but it was too late. They swarmed him, grabbing his arms and legs, pinning him to the ground.
The leader balled up the bandage and shoved it into Jefferson's mouth before sneering, "Did you think hiding in a place like this would keep you safe? We didn't originally plan to do anything serious to you, just beat you up because someone paid us to. But now..."
He grinned wickedly and took a crowbar from one of his cronies.
Jefferson's pupils contracted in fear as he stared at the crowbar. It was a steel rod, slightly bent at one end and very sharp at the tip. If it came down on him, it would definitely break bones or pierce his body, causing excruciating pain and likely death.
He wanted to dodge, but his body was held down tightly. He could only watch as the crowbar descended towards his head. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes, bracing for death.
A light cracking sound reached his ears, but no pain followed. Jefferson opened one eye slightly and saw the crowbar had struck the crate behind him, narrowly missing his face.
The lid of the crate was pried open. The leader discarded the crowbar and retrieved a syringe and several bottles from the box.
"Do you know what this is?" he sneered. "I don't either, but the guy who paid us said this stuff will kill an ordinary person within twenty years if injected."
He clearly wasn't willing to wait twenty years to see Jefferson die, as he wasn't just preparing one bottle. The milky white powder quickly dissolved in distilled water and was drawn into the syringe. This was far more than a standard dose.
Jefferson felt a sharp pain as the needle pierced his skin, the liquid quickly entering his body. In that moment, an overwhelming sense of despair washed over him.
K65 took effect rapidly. Within seconds, Jefferson's heartbeat accelerated, and the force of each beat grew, as if his heart would burst from his chest. His body heated up, his muscles twitched violently, and he experienced waves of searing pain.
Jefferson turned bright red, like a cooked shrimp. His skin oozed tiny beads of blood, and countless veins bulged grotesquely, making his exposed skin resemble gnarled tree roots.
This appearance made the person catch him feel terrified, even the leader felt fear and couldn't help thinking about picking up the crowbar that was thrown on the ground again.
No one knew what happened in the warehouse. The man driving the cart was getting impatient, convinced Jefferson was slacking off. He debated going into the warehouse to drag Jefferson out.
Just then, a series of terrified screams came from inside, followed by loud thuds. The warehouse door burst open, and two men stumbled out. One had both legs broken at the knees, while the other ran away screaming.
Suddenly, something pierced the warehouse wall, striking the fleeing man in the back with such force that his ribs shattered. The object, a small, shattered vial, fell to the ground, covered in blood.
Chaos erupted in the medical center. Nurses screamed and scattered, while wounded soldiers, braver, looked around for makeshift weapons.
After a while, Jefferson staggered out of the warehouse, bloodied and barely standing, moving like a toddler learning to walk.
Most of the soldiers recognized Jefferson. They didn't retreat, though the situation seemed bizarre. One particularly brave soldier poked Jefferson with a crutch, trying to snap him out of it.
Jefferson reacted instantly and violently, breaking the crutch with a single motion. The soldier holding the crutch felt a chill run down his spine.
Jefferson looked terrifying, but the soldiers had seen similar things on the battlefield. Jefferson reminded them of the powerful knights they had fought alongside.
The poke with the crutch seemed to bring Jefferson back to his senses. He looked at his blood-soaked hands, then vomited, memories of the carnage in the warehouse flooding back.
Moments earlier, he had killed everyone in a demonic rage. The memories made him tremble.
His revenge brought no joy, only fear. He remembered he had killed people. In peacetime, he could claim self-defense, but in wartime, there was no such defense. Killing would mean execution.
Crying out in despair, Jefferson knew he had to flee. He ran, not noticing how fast he was moving, nor that no one dared approach him.
Familiar with the old city's alleys, he chose the emptiest paths, only thinking of getting home. He hadn't considered what to do once he got there.
Suddenly, he saw a tall woman in a red uniform standing ahead.
Jefferson was about to leap across when his heart suddenly pounded wildly, an experience he had never encountered before. He abruptly stopped, a reflex action. Instinctively, he sensed something unusual about the woman before him. Though the rain was mostly blocked by the surrounding buildings, many droplets drifted into the alley, yet the woman remained dry. Rain seemed to bounce off an invisible barrier about an inch from her body.
This woman was also observing Jefferson. After a moment, she casually remarked, "I received a report and rushed over, thinking there was an intruder. It turns out to be a bloodline awakening. I'm not sure if this is good or bad for you. In peaceful times, your future would be bright, but unfortunately, it's wartime now..."
"I need to go home," Jefferson responded, utterly baffled by her words, his mind blank.
"What you need is to calm down," the woman said before suddenly moving. They were about ten meters apart, but she appeared in front of him in a flash.
Jefferson didn't even have time to react before feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen; he had been punched directly in the solar plexus. He wanted to vomit but couldn't, his head spinning uncomfortably.
A white light shone on a medical examination table where Jefferson lay, his body cleansed of blood and only covered with a white towel around his waist. Above the table hung a frame with a movable lens the size of a book, emitting a faint white light. A doctor in a white coat was moving the lens, conducting scans that clearly displayed Jefferson's flesh and bones. Nearby, several others were recording data on clipboards.
In a corner of the room, four individuals also in white coats observed, clearly not doctors but exuding a military presence. The leader, a lean middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and a small hooked nose, appeared somewhat sinister.
As the examining doctor continuously reported data, the middle-aged man quietly asked his subordinates, "Have you investigated this child's parents?"
"Yes, sir, we've conducted thorough checks. The child's father is a reservist in the 75th Corps, and his mother is a civilian. We drew their blood under quarantine pretext and found no knight bloodline reactions. We've also checked the child's birth certificate; on the day of his birth, there was no record of any female knight giving birth nationwide, nor in the allied countries," responded one of the subordinates.
The middle-aged man frowned, puzzled by the perplexing situation.
"What do you think?" he inquired, wanting to hear his subordinates' views.
After some hesitation, the earlier respondent mustered courage, "We've speculated a few possibilities, the most likely being..." He paused, finding the next words difficult, then finally continued, "The most likely possibility is that the child's biological father is someone else, possibly a knight with dormant bloodline. As you know, complete records of knight bloodlines only began after 1665. Before that, only awakened bloodline holders were documented."
Though speculative, this seemed almost certain to the speaker.
Other possibilities included a mix-up at birth, which was quickly ruled out due to strict national records of knight bloodlines. These individuals with extraordinary abilities could cause unimaginable destruction if uncontrolled. Hence, pregnant female knights were closely monitored, making intentional concealment nearly impossible.
Another possibility was that the child's father was a knight, though this was unlikely since ordinary women could hardly withstand the power of knight bloodlines during pregnancy, often resulting in hemolytic reactions, with only a 0.2% chance of successful childbirth.
As they spoke, the medical examination concluded.
The doctor approached with the recorded data, "Colonel, I've completed the examination. The child indeed has a preliminary awakening of knight bloodline, categorized as an incomplete type, with generally weak indicators."
This was expected; acquired awakenings of knight bloodlines seldom amounted to much.
"Is there a way to trace his bloodline source?" asked the military officer.
The doctor hesitated, troubled by how to explain, but was relieved when another subordinate stepped in, "Sir, incomplete knight bloodlines are often results of mutations, making it difficult to trace anything specific."
The officer nodded, taking the report from the doctor's hands.