The Breached Laboratory

A breached… laboratory?

Bennett quickly checked through the window.

The entry notification had explicitly specified [The Breached Laboratory], yet they had materialized inside a bus. If this vehicle sat out in the open, they needed to evacuate into a solid structure immediately. A bus was essentially a steel frame wrapped in fragile glass, offering virtually no shelter from external threats.

Wait.

Unlike every other vehicle he had encountered so far, the windows were completely opaque. It was as though an extra layer had been grafted directly over the glass—a dark, impenetrable film that blocked any view of the outside world.

Without warning, a brilliant azure radiance flooded the exterior.

Bennett recoiled on instinct, but the lethal blue light failed to breach the cabin. The blackened tint bonded to the windows held firm, absorbing the glare. Outside, ripples of vibrant blue washed past, but none penetrated the glass.

"So that's why they blacked out the windows."

Only after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ominous light finally receded did Bennett gesture for his companions to make their way toward the exit. The bus's front door was narrow and cramped, but the rear featured a surprisingly wide, heavy-duty iron door—a structural design completely alien to the passenger carriages back on the continent. Above the iron slab sat a thick observation pane, similarly layered with black film.

"Allow me to force it open!" Edgar declared, stepping forward with his broad shoulders squared.

"No need for that."

Bennett held Edgar back and leaned down toward the mechanism beside the doorframe.

He turned the internal valve handle. With a sharp hiss of escaping pneumatic pressure, the reinforced iron door released its seal and glided open without resistance.

"Let's move."

Stepping out first, Bennett scouted the immediate perimeter before waving the party forward. The bus was not exposed to the open sky; it stood beneath a massive, heavy-duty pavilion awning alongside a neat convoy of identical vehicles, all linked by a covered staging ground directly attached to a sprawling facility.

Bennett's attention drifted past the cautionary sign toward the imposing lettering mounted on the building's facade.

The bold Dungeon Language glyphs struck an immediate chord. He had seen that exact name during their sweep of Seoul Robotics—a state institution of that fallen world, one that had extended high-level collaborative overtures to the robotics conglomerate. It was also stamped across the specialized booster that had permanently augmented his Psionic Energy stat.

So this is that very research institute.

Bennett lowered his gaze from the exterior wall toward the primary entrance. Rather than the automatic glass partitions typical of modern complexes, a mismatched, heavy-gauge blast door barred the way—and the thick plate had been warped into violent ruin.

"Look at this... it looks like it was torn open by raw physical strength," Kyle murmured, leaning closer to inspect the jagged edge.

"Brute force?" Edgar asked skeptically.

"Yes. The steel is peeling outward, and right here..."

Kyle pointed toward faint indentations sunk deep into the deformed metal. They resembled the imprint of a hand, though the proportions were so grotesque and splayed that they might just as well have belonged to a beast's claw.

"Whatever did this must have been a monstrosity," Kyle whispered.

Bennett stepped up, planted his boots, and took hold of the torn steel sheet with both hands.

Skrrrriiiik—!

With a harsh shriek of tearing metal, Bennett dragged the mangled plating aside, widening the fissure enough for a lithe swordsman like Kyle to slip through with ease. Edgar would still have to squeeze, but the path was clear. Kyle and Edgar exchanged startled glances at the casual display of leverage, but Bennett's expression remained entirely flat.

"The hinges were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠already compromised," Bennett said dismissively. "That's the only reason it gave way."

"Even so, Bennett-nim..."

"Stay focused. We have no idea what's waiting inside."

Weapons drawn, the party crossed the threshold.

"Ugh..."

Edgar, taking the point behind Bennett, visibly grimaced. The interior was a slaughterhouse frozen in time. The hallmarks of a wholesale massacre lingered in sickening clarity, undisturbed by the decades that had passed. Decayed skeletons still clad in scraps of synthetic fabric littered the tiles, thick enough that it was impossible to walk without stepping on them. Many had not simply died; they had been violently dismembered, their severed joints and ribs scattered across yards of concrete.

The interior partitions and load-bearing walls bore deep craters, their hollows choked with crushed bone fragments piled like gravel.

Crunch. Snap.

Every step ground dry marrow beneath their boots. The visceral sensation horrified Erika so thoroughly that she could barely force herself forward, shuffling her feet flat against the tiles to avoid bearing down on the remains. It did little good. Every scrape against a protruding skull or femur sent a jolt through her frame, draining the color from her cheeks until she was pale as a ghost.

Bennett swept his gaze across the carnage, then bent down to retrieve a fractured metal rod from the debris. Though crushed and stripped, its profile was unmistakable: the barrel and gas block of a firearm. Its trigger group, receiver, and firing mechanism had been obliterated, leaving only a ruined length of rifled steel.

"Gather every scrap of paper, document, or identification badge carrying Dungeon Language," Bennett instructed.

"Understood!"

Whatever the building's original peacetime purpose had been, its floor plan had clearly been retrofitted to squeeze in as many refugees as possible. Rather than an organized bunker, it resembled an ad-hoc staging post. There were no bunks or cots, but dense wool blankets and small padded quilts lay scattered across the floor in relative abundance. Some remained remarkably well-preserved, but Bennett chose to leave them untouched. Well-made though they were, their bulk and weight would needlessly bog down their inventory.

Within the narrow reception cubicle sat a desktop computer—the universal processing machine of the dungeon world. Balduin had previously explained that configuring and directing quadrupedal robot dogs required terminal interfaces of this kind, though operating the machine and extracting its salvageable data were two very different challenges.

Bennett tapped the power button on the front panel, but nothing stirred. The electrical grid was dead, and when he peered into the chassis vents, the internal hardware proved completely ruined. The broad circuit board had cracked down the center, and the wiring harnesses hung in frayed ribbons.

Prying open a metal desk drawer, he retrieved several faded sheets of paper preserved beneath a plastic binder.

Further directives had been scribbled along the bottom of the page, but the text was either faded beyond legibility or deliberately scrubbed with solvent.

Blood screening? What were they testing for?

To someone raised on the Lancelot Continent, the concept was entirely alien. Unless an apothecary was draining tainted blood from a wound, drawing bodily fluids for analysis simply wasn't done. Bennett had heard tales of reclusive mages and alchemists experimenting with bloodlines, but to a common mercenary, that sounded like the stuff of esoteric myth. Unless a man suffered internal trauma, his blood stayed where it belonged.

Then there was the other term.

"What on earth is this White Disease?"

"Pardon, Bennett-nim?" Kyle asked, turning from the doorway.

"Nothing. Just an unfamiliar phrase in these documents."

Bennett rummaged through the remaining desk compartments and pried open a locked steel ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠filing locker against the back wall, but found no further intelligence. Tucking the classification guidelines into his coat, he stepped out into the hallway just as Edgar and Erika emerged from an adjacent storage bay.

"Find anything useful?"

"No, Bennett-nim," Edgar sighed, scratching his nape. "Just empty packing crates and ruined refuse."

"Let's sweep the rest of the floor."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ground level contained what appeared to be communal living quarters and a staff mess hall. The sleeping quarters were thoroughly looted, leaving nothing of value behind, but the cafeteria yielded an unexpected prize.

"Oh! Maxim!"

Erika's eyes lit up as she held up a cluster of slender yellow packets—the identical powdered coffee brand they had first discovered in the corporate breakrooms of the Abandoned Headquarters.

"Bennett-nim! Could we take just five minutes for a cup before we push deeper?" Edgar pleaded, his eyes practically gleaming.

Bennett scanned the reinforced perimeter, verified that the entrance remained secure, and gave a brief nod.

"Erika-nim, could you lend us some hot water?" Kyle asked cordially.

"Give me just a second!"

Dusting off a stainless steel prep table, the party set down their gear. Erika summoned a steady ember of magic to boil water in a salvaged kettle, and within minutes, the rich, buttery aroma of roasted beans and sweet condensed milk enveloped the dingy room.

"Here is Bennett-nim's cup first... then Kyle-nim, then mine, and Edgar-nim gets the last one."

"Hey, why am I always at the bottom of the order?!" Edgar grumbled, though he grinned as he waited.

After handing around the ceramic mugs, Erika uncapped a heavy insulated thermos she had tucked into her satchel and filled it to the brim with extra brew. As she passed Bennett his share, she caught his eye and gave a subtle, conspiratorial wink.

I brewed yours extra strong, her lips silently mouthed.

Bennett felt the corners of his mouth twitch in a faint smirk, and he nodded in silent acknowledgment.

With their brief respite concluded, the party moved toward the stairwell to clear the upper level. Unlike the compartmentalized ground floor, the second story was an expansive, open-concept floor plan interrupted only by a pair of restrooms and a maintenance alcove.

Here, too, the grotesque handiwork of the assailant was painted across every surface. Structural concrete columns had been pulverized into powdered rubble. Deep, clawed footprints scored the linoleum flooring, surrounded by the tangled skeletons of those cut down as they fled.

The party conducted a methodical sweep, avoiding the compromised section where the outer wall had collapsed into the courtyard. In the far corner of a shattered restroom, Kyle let out a sharp whistle.

"Is this... ammunition?"

Lying half-buried under a collapsed ceiling tile was a black polymer magazine containing two intact brass cartridges. Bennett took the magazine and examined it under the dim light, his eyes narrowing as he checked the feed lips and baseplate.

This looks like it fits the Glock we salvaged earlier.

The geometric profile was nearly identical to the sidearm he had tucked into his inventory. Or was it slightly slimmer? Without the pistol in hand for a direct comparison, it was impossible to say with absolute certainty, but two live rounds of modern ammunition were still an invaluable prize. Balduin would pay handsomely for them—or better yet, Bennett could leverage them to secure the land rights and construction materials needed for their permanent hideout.

Just as Bennett turned to exit the restroom, something white wedged into the door jamb caught his attention.

It was a folded wad of synthetic toilet paper. The material itself was mundane, but the frantic Korean text scrawled across its surface in faded blue ink demanded his focus. The handwriting was jagged and hurried, requiring careful deciphering.

Bennett could read every glyph clearly, but one specific word gave him pause.

The press? What is 'the press'?

Judging by the desperate plea to 'report' the situation, it sounded like an appeal to an oversight body or investigative authority. Perhaps an equivalent to the Kingdom's city watch or royal inspectors? Yet that made little sense. This entire installation was an arm of the central government. Even if a city watch existed, what jurisdiction could local constables possibly hold over a state-run military research institute?

It doesn't add up.

Shaking his head, Bennett folded the scrap and slid it into his inner pocket. If it proved useless, he could discard it later.

"Bennett-nim, there's nothing else of note on this floor," Kyle reported from the corridor.

"Then we move to the next wing."

Retracing their steps down to the ground floor, the party exited through the covered breezeway beneath the pavilion awning and sprinted across the courtyard toward the adjacent facility. This secondary structure was slightly smaller than the main hall, but it had also been expanded with heavy canvas awnings to shelter personnel.

Bennett pulsed his Detection skill. Sensing no foreign life signatures or traps in the immediate vicinity, he drew his tactical baton and took the vanguard as always, stepping through the torn threshold of another mangled blast door.

Then, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

—!

A chill of pure dread shot straight down his spine.

Bennett's pupils dilated in shock as the very fabric of space before his eyes violently distorted.

BOOM!