Chapter Twenty-Three: Three Seconds

"Time Zero? What is that?"

Lu Mingfei had never heard of such a name before.

"It is a type of Spirit!" Guderian looked incredibly excited. "Spirits are the most important supernatural abilities of the dragon-blooded. Within their 'domain,' the words spoken by the dragon-blooded in the Draconic language become a form of law, thereby producing various effects! Mingfei, you have actually awakened! And it is 'Time Zero,' the same type as the Principal's!"

"Uh, is this Spirit rare?"

Toyama Masashi was even more excited than Guderian: "Mr. Lu! Since the founding of Cassell College, only the Principal has possessed 'Time Zero.' It—it is the dragon-slaying blade bestowed upon humanity by fate!"

Lu Mingfei did not understand why they were so worked up over a spell; perhaps the living conditions in his hometown were too harsh, forcing them to prioritize practical arts over the essence of the Dao.

He didn't speak again. He checked the four people in black combat uniforms he had just knocked down, and his eyelids couldn't help but twitch. Submachine guns, shotguns, pistols, knives, walkie-talkies... Wait, why were there grenades? Did Frigg bullets come in grenade versions too?

A voice roared from the walkie-talkie: "B4! B4! Is the clearing mission complete?!"

Lu Mingfei cleared his throat: "B4 received! Mission complete! Mission complete!"

The voice on the other end was silent for a moment. It did not reply to Lu Mingfei, but amidst the background noise of gunfire, he heard it roar again: "D1! Prepare for 307! Prepare for 307!"

Was 307 a room number?

Lu Mingfei had been carried into the study after fainting, so he didn't know which room he was in. However, he had just jumped out of a window, and he seemed to be on the third floor now.

A sense of impending disaster rose in Lu Mingfei's heart. He had always respected his intuition, so he activated "Time Zero" again without hesitation.

Time began to accelerate.

He walked through the empty corridor and down the stairs. When he reached the first floor, the flow of time returned to normal. That had been the longest duration Lu Mingfei had ever maintained "Time Zero" at once. His perceived time was about 120 seconds, while in reality...

Lu Mingfei glanced at his N96, which was keeping time.

Three seconds.

"Time Zero" had accelerated his time by forty times.

Stepping out of the building's entrance, he happened to see a person in a black combat uniform kneeling on one knee, reflecting the well-known weapon resting on his shoulder—an RPG shoulder-fired rocket launcher!

The rocket flew out, punching through a window on the building, followed by a massive explosion of red mist. If he wasn't mistaken, that rocket had been aimed at him. He had told Professor Guderian to come out with him, but the old man had refused. Now, this amount of anesthetic was enough for a bath.

Lu Mingfei shook his head and activated "Time Zero" for the third time.

Time began to accelerate.

...

Lancelot, Vice President of the Lionheart Society and Deputy Commander of the Black Team for the campus's day-long combat simulation exercise, was drenched in sweat.

In their original plan, they were to occupy this building as their command post, facing the church occupied by the Red Team, with the parking lot as the main battlefield. But no one expected the initial clearing of bystanders to go so poorly. A four-man combat squad had been taken out by some unknown tough guy before they could fire a single shot.

Now, the main force of the Black Team, led by the President of the Lionheart Society, was locked in a fierce battle with the Red Team's assault troops. If he couldn't clear the building to use as a stronghold immediately, the Black Team would have no defensive position to fall back on. On top of that, while clashing with the Red Team, they had to be wary of being attacked from the rear and remain vigilant against this mysterious third party...

This was impossible to play; they might as well quit.

Lancelot did not hesitate and immediately issued an order to the assault team: "D1, prepare for 307! Prepare for 307!"

The Lionheart Society members displayed the efficiency of an old-school fraternity. Designated D1, the two-man rocket launcher team ignored the B4 squad that might still be resisting the enemy. One knelt down to aim, and the other loaded the shell. It took them only two seconds to complete the sequence and fire a high-powered Frigg rocket at room 307.

With such ruthless decision-making and decisive execution, combined with the wide-area explosion of the rocket, whoever this expert was, he should be down.

A massive red mist bloomed over the building, and the deafening roar of the explosion even drowned out the incessant gunfire. Lancelot opened his walkie-talkie and roared: "President! The teaching building has been cleared! I repeat—"

Suddenly, he saw a young man standing idly at the entrance of the teaching building.

Unlike the murderous Black Team combatants, he had delicate features, though his left cheek was comically swollen. He was thin, wearing a dirty Cassell College uniform, and strolling casually in front of a group of fully armed soldiers. His eyes were unfocused, his steps were sluggish, and his physique was frail—he was not a combatant.

There was no need for further instructions; Lancelot glanced at him and looked away.

The soldiers in front had already raised their submachine guns, a dozen dark muzzles aimed at the boy, intending to let this clueless intruder who had stumbled onto the "battlefield" get a good night's sleep. Everyone thought the same thing: this boy would soon be fast asleep until he was awakened after the battle with the Red Team concluded.

However, fate did not follow their wishes.

The next moment, everything changed!

In an instant—just as Lancelot looked away—a dozen red Frigg flowers, composed primarily of high-potency anesthetic, bloomed simultaneously!

"Bang!"

That's right, there was only one gunshot.

Strange, strange. Why did more than ten people fire at the same time, yet there was only one gunshot? Could more than ten people really fire at the exact same moment without the slightest discrepancy?

An irresistible drowsiness flooded his mind. Lancelot instinctively tried to use his superior bloodline to resist it, but he still inevitably fell to one knee.

At this moment, a pair of shoes appeared in his field of vision. A pair of sneakers—Nike, not very clean; anyone with an eye for detail could tell they weren't authentic. Cassell College only issued uniforms, not matching shoes.

His gaze moved upward to the Cassell College uniform trousers. There were creases at the cuffs, which made the always meticulous Lancelot feel uncomfortable, and he wished he could reach out and smooth them. But he no longer had the strength. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead; even an excellent "A" grade bloodline could not withstand such a high dose of anesthetic.

The walkie-talkie in his hand was snatched away by a hand with prominent knuckles. He clenched his right hand, trying to hold on. But his fingers, which could easily crush a human skull, couldn't summon any strength. He could only watch helplessly as the black, brick-like walkie-talkie slowly slipped away from his grip.

"I repeat—the teaching building has been cleared—"

The voice was comical and teasing, elongating the syllables while mimicking his Mandarin, which was heavily accented with French.

A surge of intense indignation rose in Lancelot's heart. He slurred, stuttering: "You—if you are a Fr—Frenchman, your Mandarin isn't necessarily better than mine..."

The walkie-talkie was dropped back onto him. He could no longer maintain his balance, fell backward onto the ground, and as his vision went black, he ceased to move.