CHAPTER 166: STRANGE SYSTEM MISSION

The stars above F-Ranked Superhero City blinked dully through the haze of industrial light and lingering smoke. The city was a sprawling labyrinth of cracked concrete, rusted rooftops, neon signs flickering between glitches, and winding alleys swallowed by fog. A city forgotten by time and prestige, inhabited by low-tier heroes, petty crooks, washed-out vigilantes, and the ghosts of abandoned missions. It was the bottom rung of the superpowered world — the graveyard of dreams.

Elius walked through it as if it were a cathedral.

He had ditched the last train five blocks ago and moved on foot. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to feel the ground, to sense the beat of the streets. The quiet pain of the city’s people was a hum in the back of his head — mothers scraping coins to buy dinner, ex-heroes living in cramped hostels, retired sidekicks who now limped to work in broken boots. Every face told a story that no comic would publish. And Elius walked among them, not as a savior, not as a visitor, but as someone who belonged.

He passed a food stall, steam rising from boiling broth. The old vendor behind the cart gave him a nod of familiarity, one that said, You again? Still not dead, huh?

Elius returned the nod, pulled out a crumpled bill, and dropped it on the counter without a word. He didn’t wait for food. That wasn’t why he came.

He turned the corner and vanished into the deeper part of the district, boots quiet on the wet pavement, senses on full alert. His system interface shimmered faintly in his vision — a soft blue screen only he could see.

MISSION ACTIVATED

Target Classification: Mind Controllers (Retired, Unregistered)

Threat Level: F low to F peak

Directive: Interrogation. Suppression if hostile.

Objective: Identify and secure unrecorded mind control agents believed to have manipulated key F-Class heroes during the 4th Superhuman Civil Incident.

Elius inhaled deeply. His expression didn’t change, but his mind sharpened like a drawn blade.

Mind controllers.

They were different from brawlers, mutants, or elemental types. Subtle. Insidious. Dangerous not because of their power output, but because of the way they could twist a man’s soul while smiling in his face. Many were hunted down after the war, but Elius knew — the ones left behind were the real threats. The ones that didn’t get caught were the ones that chose not to be seen.

And he had found one.

An old man named Grivalis. Once a famed "negotiator" between factions — peacekeeper on the surface, puppeteer underneath. Unregistered. Evaded arrest. Rumor said he could bend thirty men to his will just by speaking in a certain rhythm. Others claimed he had long since gone senile, wandering the ruins of Old Sector 12, lost in the echoes of his own whispers.

Elius knew better.

He reached the shattered gate of the Sector 12 ruins — a desolate region where the Hero Academy once tested recruits before the reforms. Now it was condemned, half-swallowed by vegetation and crumbling architecture, full of asbestos and silence. It was the perfect place for someone like Grivalis to fade into myth.

The wind howled through the broken halls like a ghost chorus. Elius stepped over rusted fences, ducked under fallen beams, and crossed cracked tiles filled with rainwater. His eyes scanned for movement, his senses tuned to anything unusual.

Then he saw it — the faint flicker of movement behind the remains of an observation post.

Elius approached slowly, feet making no sound.

And there he was.

A hunched figure in a tattered robe sat before a small fire made from old Academy flags. His face was thin, sunken, his beard matted and grey. His eyes, however, gleamed with a wicked clarity that belied his age.

"Visitor," the old man rasped before Elius even spoke. "You walk like one who’s killed without remorse."

Elius stopped ten feet away. "And you breathe like one who’s hidden for far too long."

Grivalis chuckled. It was a sound that felt wrong — like dry bones grinding. "Come to kill me, boy?"

"No," Elius said calmly. "I came to ask a few questions. Whether you live depends on your answers."

"Ah," Grivalis said, brushing a rat off his knee. "You’re not from the government. You’re not a dog of the Corps. No badge, no backup. Who sent you?"

"No one," Elius said.

Grivalis looked up, his cloudy eyes narrowing. "Then why chase shadows?"

"Because you manipulated S-Class heroes and no one punished you for it," Elius answered.

"Everyone manipulates heroes, child. Especially the ones who call themselves righteous."

"Not like you did," Elius said. "You made them kill each other. You made them abandon cities. You whispered fear into their dreams."

"And they listened, didn’t they?" Grivalis laughed, raising a shaking finger. "Because they were always willing. A little nudge, and all that shining idealism collapsed like a house of glass. I didn’t plant the seeds. I just watered them."

Elius took a step forward. "I’m not here to argue philosophy."

Grivalis’s grin twisted. "Then what are you here for, blonde boy? You don’t want justice. You want closure. You want a scapegoat for something deep and bloody."

"I want your mind," Elius said simply. "I’m going to extract everything you know. The networks. The strings you pulled. The names."

Grivalis leaned back, his gaze suddenly gleaming. "You’ll need to get past the illusions first."

The moment he spoke, the fire flared purple.

And then the world warped.

Suddenly, Elius was standing in a hall of mirrors, his reflection repeating infinitely in every direction. Each reflection wore a different expression — laughing, crying, bleeding, screaming. His vision tilted. His head ached.

"Interesting," Elius murmured. "An internal mirror construct. You spun a pocket dimension without even leaving your seat."

"You’re already inside," Grivalis whispered from nowhere and everywhere. "Your mind is clay."

Elius closed his eyes.

And then, within the construct, a sword appeared above his shoulder — floating, spinning, singing with spiritual resonance.

CLANG!

The sword shattered one mirror, then another, and another — a ripple of light collapsing the illusion around him like falling dominoes.

Grivalis gasped as reality returned, coughing blood into his lap.

"You..." he rasped. "How—"

"I’m not from your world," Elius said softly. "I came from a higher system. One where will is everything. And your tricks?" He walked forward, slow and steady. "They’re children’s games compared to what I’ve seen."

Grivalis tried to retreat, but Elius raised a finger.

Chains of golden energy erupted from the ground, wrapping the old man in place.

"I’ll let your mind live," Elius said. "But you’re going to tell me everything."

Grivalis struggled weakly, but he knew. It was over.

Elius turned, prepared to open a spatial gate to extract the prisoner back to his hidden sanctuary. His system shimmered again, detecting no immediate threats.

Then—

"My son."

The voice echoed like a blade slicing through memory.

Elius stopped mid-step.

The hairs on his arms rose instantly. That voice—it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t crafted. It wasn’t a clone, a double, or a shapeshifted imposter.

He slowly turned.

And standing beneath the broken arch of the ruin’s highest tower... was him.

The real Radiant Man.

Not smiling. Not dancing. Not glowing with playful arrogance.

Just standing there. Silent. Bright. Heavy with the pressure of the sun.

And looking straight at Elius.