Chapter 306 - 302: Factions and a Sudden Knock

Chapter 306: Chapter 302: Factions and a Sudden Knock

Upon receiving the latest intelligence, the people at the Extraordinary Turmoil Investigation Team headquarters sighed in resignation, even though they knew the soldiers on the scene had simply acted on instinct.

Immediately after the monster fell, helicopters followed it down.

After confirming the precise crash site, several helicopters landed, and soldiers disembarked to set up a makeshift cordon and call for ground reinforcements.

Meanwhile, on the edge of Lau Park in Munich City, a massive cordon had already been established by the police and the subsequently arriving military.

The area around Lau Park was lit only by the park’s own lights, which weren’t very bright in the first place. With many of them now pierced by steel spikes, the scene was incredibly dim.

「One hour after the incident.」

Searchlights on distant rooftops, surrounding vehicles, and newly erected towers all switched on, suddenly bathing the large area in light and revealing the true state of the battlefield.

The churned and shattered roadbed, the broken bronze statue, the demolished phone booth, the wrecked vehicles, and the utter devastation all around...

Research vehicles were on site, and command of the scene had now been completely transferred to the Extraordinary Turmoil Investigation Team.

Outside the cordon, several reporters brandished the banner of "freedom of the press," demanding to be let inside to conduct interviews.

This gave the police officers manning the cordon a headache. But when the soldiers and members of the Super-Tuning Team arrived, things changed. This new group gave the reporters no quarter. Their actions were efficient—brutal, even, from the reporters’ perspective.

They bluntly informed the reporters that the area was under military jurisdiction. Not only were interviews forbidden, but broadcasting any related content without authorization was also prohibited.

In private, a few Munich police officers quietly ’leaked’ to some journalists that the incident was actually an experimental military weapon that had malfunctioned and crashed.

Soon after, the reporters at the scene began receiving phone calls from their superiors and promptly left the cordon.

The distant commotion finally died down. Inside the cordon, a tall, middle-aged, blond man stood, having removed his gloves to stroke a pitch-black spike.

The research personnel had informed them that while the long spikes and black feathers on the ground were harmless, the residual black blood was toxic and must not be touched with bare hands.

"Carl, explain what happened earlier!"

A stone-faced Carl had already gone home, washed his face, and changed into clean clothes.

Facing the major’s question, he chose his words carefully before giving a calm reply.

"I was on my way to dinner, driving, and took a shortcut past Warsaw Avenue... when I saw a dark figure rip the spear from the bronze statue and hurl it at the sky with shocking speed and power!"

They were standing right next to the bronze statue, and as Carl spoke, the major examined the damage to the sculpture of the ancient warrior.

To reduce weight and save on materials, the figure of the statue was hollow, but its weapons were solid metal.

From the words Carl used—"shattered," "red light," "breakneck speed"—it wasn’t hard to imagine the power involved.

The shattered concrete roadbed by the statue, and the trail of cracks extending for a hundred meters, perfectly matched the sprinting distance Carl described.

"Could you tell if it was human?"

This was clearly the question on everyone’s mind.

"Yes, it had a human appearance, at least!"

"Alright, continue."

Carl paused as if recalling the memory, then continued.

"My first reaction was shock, followed by confusion. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, and for a moment, I hesitated to approach."

The surrounding agents nodded in understanding. You couldn’t very well expect someone to try and arrest a Superman-like figure.

"But I quickly found my answer."

Carl’s expression turned to one of genuine, lingering fear.

"He was fighting the monster in the sky, using the spear like a javelin. I could tell he was acting in haste—forced into the fight. He didn’t even have any other weapons."

"The reason I’m sure he was human is that he noticed me afterward and yelled at me to run..."

At this, Carl gave a wry smile.

"But there are three kinds of people who wouldn’t run in a situation like that: lunatics, reporters chasing a scoop, and us!"

The major, with a rare flash of humor, remarked:

"In a way, the mental state of all three is pretty similar sometimes. And then what?"

"After that, I don’t think he could spare me another thought..."

As Carl continued his account, he detailed the intensity of the battle, the timely arrival of a second warrior, and even how he himself had fired his gun at a critical moment to draw the monster’s attention.

The spent shell casings, the wrecked car, the damaged statue pedestal, the crushed concrete, the shattered quill-like feathers, and the bloodstains all corroborated his story.

"After I fired my gun, it targeted me. Forgive me, but my heart froze. I jumped in my car, slammed on the gas, and just drove. Later, my eardrums started bleeding from a powerful sonic blast, but I didn’t dare stop. Thank god I’m still alive."

The agents present fell silent for a moment.

"Good work, Carl. You’ve been with us less than two months, but no one could have done a better job."

A monster that exceeded all expectations, and Guardians that exceeded them, too!

Without a doubt, the two warriors had been forced to fight to protect Munich City. They were truly its Guardians.

The major turned his head, his gaze falling on several long, distinctive quills lying nearby. They were stained with fresh, red blood.

It wasn’t hard for anyone present to picture the carnage from that final, explosive rain of quills.

By combining confiscated video footage, the testimony of patients in hospital isolation wards, and Carl’s debriefing, they could vividly reconstruct most of the battle.

"It was a true fight to the death! Regardless, those two... people... they’re heroes. I hope they made it out okay."

"Yeah. I hope they’re safe."

Carl nodded in agreement. ’The so-called madness of the Noeman Clan, passed down for generations, is finally vindicated,’ he thought. Overwhelmed by a powerful mix of shock, guilt, and a newfound sense of belonging and purpose, he decisively sided with Dawn.

’The image of the brand slowly appearing on that severed arm would be seared into his memory for the rest of his life.’

...

Tulip Road. In a hidden basement—or perhaps a small underground palace would be a more fitting description.

Of course, a building belonging to Dawn would have its secrets. Beneath its simple, sturdy exterior wasn’t just an impressive interior, but also three levels of vast, subterranean space.

The structure was shaped like an inverted pyramid. The largest open area was situated directly beneath the great hall, a part of the building that didn’t need to bear much weight. The space then widened with each descending level, a design that was both aesthetically pleasing and mechanically sound, ensuring it didn’t compromise the building’s overall stability.

Peter and Niso were now on the first subterranean level, lying on makeshift beds of quilts spread across the floor.

"What do we do now? Should I call a doctor?"

With Carl gone, Frank anxiously asked his father.

Old Noeman, with all his years and experience, knew a great deal more than he let on.

"No. Go now and buy an IV kit and painkillers—get the injectable kind if you can. Also, surgical needles, thread, and gauze. Oh, and don’t forget blood plasma and hemostatic agents..."

He glanced at the horrific wounds. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but it made him wonder if they had simply run out of blood to bleed.

"Take this. Use cash. Go to Old Lensa’s pharmacy—the one at 15 Tulip Road. He has a... private stock. You can get anything there, including plasma. Tell him not to write anything down. If he asks questions or threatens you, just say it’s time to repay the old cripple’s bar tab. He’ll understand."

"The Old Cripple" was the nickname for Old Noeman’s late father, earned after his left leg was maimed in World War II. Carl had often suspected that leg was the biggest reason that had kept the old man from going out and "acting crazy."

Frank memorized the instructions and hurried out the door, with Mani following to help.

Carl returned an hour and a half after he’d left. His superiors, sympathetic to the "fatigue" he was showing, had told him to go home and rest, promising to call if anything came up.

Frank and Mani returned not only with medical supplies, but also with 78-year-old Old Lensa in tow.

The family and their outside help bustled about for a long time before things finally settled down.

The gruesome wounds horrified Old Lensa. Some of the internal damage was so severe that he didn’t dare probe too deeply. He could only do his best to suture and bandage what he could see. He worked for a full four hours before stopping to rest, having sweat enough to fill several bowls.

Now, at least, Peter and Niso looked like proper patients.

Getting an IV needle into their veins, however, was another matter. Their skin and flesh resisted the needle as if it were rubber.

Now, all they could do was wait. Wait for a miracle, or, as it were, wait for Dawn.

From the moment he arrived, even after seeing the secret basement at the Noeman’s house, Old Lensa hadn’t asked a single question, despite the shock on his face.

By twelve-thirty in the morning, everyone was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion.

The five of them sat on the floor, propped up by sofa cushions, eating bread and drinking water.

"Noeman," Old Lensa began, his aged face clouding with reminiscence. He was thinking of his old friend, the late "Old Cripple." He had managed to evade the Gestapo during the frantic period of national conscription entirely thanks to him. "For these two men to still be alive after all this... they can’t be ordinary people, can they..."

These two unbelievably resilient patients looked like they were wrestling with the Death God himself.

Old Noeman remained silent for a few seconds.

"Uncle Lensa, a lot of people said my father was mad. Plenty of people say the same about me. But do you know *why* we’re mad? The history of the Noeman Clan is full of people like us. Why do you think that is?"

The old pharmacist’s wise, world-weary eyes met those of the younger man, who had now grown old himself. His gaze then drifted to the three children who represented the new generation of the Noeman Clan.

Just as he was about to speak,

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...

A rhythmic knocking sound echoed down into the basement.

’Is that... just someone knocking?’

The basement had a line connected to the doorbell, so they would have heard it ring. But the soundproofing was so good that you could smash the door down and no one below would hear a thing.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...

The knocking sounded again. On the floor, one of the wounded men’s arms twitched.