Chapter 1: You Did Well

“Raise your right hand.”

In a modest observation room, three walls were solid while the fourth was embedded with a full panel of one-way glass. Beyond this, the specially designed space held no extraneous furnishings no desks, chairs, bookshelves, or beds only a bright yet gentle white light that illuminated every detail, including the fair-haired youth standing at its center.

Facing the glass wall, he stood ramrod straight. Appearing around fifteen or sixteen years old, he possessed a slender build and exceptionally refined features, yet his face remained utterly devoid of emotion, cold as a machine programmed solely to receive commands.

In truth, he had only recently been liberated from prolonged brainwashing and control, distinguished from failed test subjects merely by a numerical designation Black No. 12.

Thus, when the unfamiliar voice issued instructions through ceiling-mounted speakers, his pale amber eyes flickered briefly before he quietly and obediently raised the handgun in his right hand, assuming a standard one-handed shooting stance.

Clad only in a tank top and trousers, his well-proportioned frame and long limbs complemented the weapon a pinnacle of violent aesthetics creating an elegant fusion of rationality and cruelty that was strikingly captivating.

The barrel remained steadily aimed at the glass, his index finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Though alone and physically unrestrained by straps or bonds, had Black No. 12 activated his ability and pulled the trigger at that moment, any chance of escape would have been secondary to the grim conclusion awaiting him.

This was a deliberately orchestrated psychological extreme test, with an audience eagerly awaiting the outcome.

From the viewing side of the glass wall, rows of equipment lined the room as monitoring devices embedded in the observation chamber diligently collected data, screens flickering with live feeds.

Aside from several psychologists conducting the assessment, a black-haired youth similar in age to Black No. 12 had accompanied his superior to observe, poised to suppress the subject with his own ability at a moment’s notice.

“No need to be so tense,”

the middle-aged officer in high-ranking military attire smiled amiably, reassuring the dark-haired youth.

“He seems quite non-confrontational far better than anticipated.”

Rimbaud nodded cautiously, maintaining his vigilant stance.

” Well done, lower it.”

As the brief exchange concluded behind the glass, Black No. 12 alone in the room had already complied with the psychologist’s instruction, letting his gun-bearing arm fall back to his side, the muzzle now pointing mutely at the floor.

Prior to this, following a comprehensive physical examination, he had smoothly executed a series of commands including [squat down], [stand up], [touch your right shoulder with your left hand], [remove your jacket], and [recite the following phrases], demonstrating no issues with basic French comprehension or obedience.

While these instructions might seem utterly mundane to ordinary individuals, considering the unique circumstances of Black No. Twelve, the higher-ups specifically ordered this targeted testing.

He was a highly lethal artificial experimental subject created by the anti-government faction May Revolution. Before being brought back by the black-haired youth, he had remained in a controlled state without self-awareness, never receiving any conventional or academic education a genuine humanoid weapon.

Though Black No. Twelve currently appears as a fifteen or sixteen-year-old youth, his actual time since creation might be shorter than that of a toddler learning to walk.

“Even if he was once Pan’s watchdog, we can still try to see if we can domesticate him.”

The officer, with his hands clasped behind his back, watched Black No. Twelve’s reactions with keen interest, a smiling and seemingly amiable expression on his face.

The black-haired youth stood half a step behind the officer, his gaze fixed on Black No. Twelve in the observation room. Like the subject, he remained silent and did not respond.

“Basic testing items have all been completed, Mr. Gao.”

The psychologist who had been recording finally spoke up, his expression uneasy, clearly unable to guarantee the safety of the upcoming tests.

“Next will be more advanced psychological breakdown testing. Would you like to…?”

Though this man was obviously a high-ranking military officer, he never wore insignia when entering research facilities, only allowing them to address him as “Mr. Gao.”

Mr. Gao now rejected the suggestion to withdraw, simply instructing them to proceed.

When the communication button wasn’t pressed, the glass wall provided complete soundproofing, preventing their conversation from reaching the other side.

The golden-haired youth across the glass remained standing quietly, showing no reaction or movement while awaiting the next instruction.

Until the next moment, when the white light in the observation room intensified to a glaring brightness.

He instinctively narrowed his eyes but made no attempt to shield them from the light the instructions hadn’t required him to do so.

Typically, people under strong lighting find it difficult to maintain solid psychological defenses, more easily developing resistance and agitation from wanting to escape the discomfort.

This common interrogation technique, now applied to Black No. Twelve, naturally wouldn’t stop here.

“What’s today’s date?”

“Where did you get that jacket you’re wearing?”

“What did you eat yesterday?”

“What color is grass?”

“Where do fish live?”

“Memorize the sentence I’m about to say and repeat it.”

Under the adverse conditions of intense lighting, he was required to answer various common knowledge questions and repeat complex sentences sometimes even being abruptly interrupted by the psychologist mid-response with more challenging demands.

Inside the observation room, the solitary golden-haired youth complied with each instruction. Even when deliberately reprimanded through the speakers, he showed no signs of resistance or anger in his expressions or movements.

In terms of obedience, he was indeed remarkably satisfactory, making Mr. Gao increasingly curious.

“Yachong,”

He affectionately addressed the black-haired youth by his code name, shifting some attention to the young man beside him.

“You were responsible for monitoring him before he was brought to Paris. What did you do to make him so obedient?”

The black-haired youth addressed as “Yachong” remained silent for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

“I only taught him some common sense. Previously, he was either forcibly put to sleep by Pan or manipulated through Pan’s command formula, with no opportunity to contact the outside world.”

These words were half-truths, but sufficient to deceive his superior.

After all, no one knew that upon obtaining this job, he had also received a peculiar handwritten journal.

At that time, having just faked his death to escape prison abandoning his entire past to ensure his homeland’s victory in this world war, he had been invited to join the government’s official intelligence agency: the Special Combat Forces Headquarters, abbreviated as DGSS.

Yet this journal of unknown origin recorded a story that had not yet unfolded.

It foretold how after rescuing Black No. 12, he would gift his own real name “Paul Verlaine” as a code name to the boy, while adopting the name of the boy’s prototype “Arthur Rimbaud” as his own code name.

They would become inseparable partners, until a mission four years later when he would suffer betrayal at the other’s hands.

Even then, the amnesiac exile wouldn’t seek revenge, instead exhausting the last of his ability to save the other’s life as he lay dying.

He never believed the journal’s account, until he received the mission to eliminate the anti-government force “May Revolution” and rescued Black No. 12, who matched the journal’s description perfectly.

The absurdity of it all struck him deeply. He was certain his ability didn’t include foreseeing the future, yet the journal had only shown him the first twenty-seven years of his life.

He would die twelve years later.

The cause of death would be this “artificial god” he had just rescued.

Sitting in that dim, cold cheap hotel room, the black-haired youth whose real name was Paul Verlaine but now went by the code name Yachong gazed at the sleeping Black No. 12 for a long, long time.

As a member of DGSS’s combat department, he hadn’t participated in the high-risk battle itself intelligence gathering and transfer were handled by the adjacent intelligence division.

Moreover, though Black No. 12 was Pan’s masterpiece, he remained human with a vulnerable neck like any ordinary creature. It wouldn’t take much technique to end his life through suffocation.

This way, the shadow of his uncertain death could be dispelled ahead of schedule.

Submitting a slightly fabricated report would suffice no witnesses could contradict his false conclusions.

Should he act?

He looked down at the still-sleeping artificial test subject, weighing the pros and cons in his mind.

The profound bonds of “partnership” and “close friendship” described in the journal as developing between them he currently felt none of it.

But he remembered clearly reading about being betrayed, severely injured, losing his memory, wandering foreign lands, becoming a low-level enforcer for some island nation’s mafia, and ultimately meeting a tragic early death.

And he found it utterly incomprehensible.

Eliminating every potential threat in its cradle aligned far better with his principles.

He was a spy, a special agent, a soldier anything but a soft-hearted, self-sacrificing altruist.

Since he had taken on this special assignment, his past had turned to grains of sand buried beneath thick dust, concealing all those familiar names one by one.

The oil lamp cast a dim glow. The logbook on the table remained blank, and the black-haired boy’s expression was indifferent as he slowly extended his fingers toward the “artificial god” lying on the bed.

A faint crimson light pulsed subtly, hidden within the gloomy rainy night.

Just then, those hazel eyes opened.

…………

“You’ve done well.”

Mr. Gao’s voice snapped the black-haired boy out of his reverie, pulling his thoughts back to the present.

“Thank you for your praise,” he replied. “I’ve heard that the higher-ups intend for me to mentor him, to become his guide.”

“The liaison already informed you?”

Mr. Gao chuckled. “Indeed, Black No. 12’s ability possesses immense destructive power on a physical level, but it’s useless against someone like you who manipulates alternate dimensions. From every perspective, you’re the only suitable candidate.”

The black-haired boy fell silent, seemingly deep in thought.

In the observation room, the tests continued with flickering strobe lights and intermittent sharp noises blaring from the speakers.

Under these conditions, Black No. 12 showed clear signs of discomfort, yet his overall state remained stable, and he complied well with instructions.

“The higher-ups have determined he holds significant value. If he passes this test, he’ll become your partner going forward.”

Mr. Gao observed him for a long moment before turning to his most capable subordinate.

“Black No. 12 is the name Pan gave him, not one we officially recognize. Have you thought of a code name for him, my dear Yachong?”

“……”

After a few seconds of silence, the black-haired boy addressed as Yachong spoke calmly.

“Paul Verlaine. Additionally, I’ve submitted a request to change my own code name from Yachong to Arthur Rimbaud.”

After a brief moment of surprise, Mr. Gao smiled and nodded without further comment.

He had been the one who originally recruited him, so he naturally knew Paul Verlaine was his real name.

This was also a tactic to foster subconscious familiarity simple, direct, yet highly effective.

“Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, Rimbaud. You have many colleagues you can turn to for assistance.”

Mr. Gao smoothly adopted the black-haired boy’s new code name, his gaze remaining sharp and perceptive as it rested on the observation room. The disorienting strobe lights that would unsettle most people didn’t affect him in the slightest.

Rimbaud, trained through high-intensity interrogation drills, was similarly unfazed.

As for Verlaine in the observation room… he passed every test with remarkable ease. The monitors indicated an astonishingly low level of instability.

Was it innate talent, or were the triggers that could truly disturb him psychologically simply outside the scope of these tests?

Mr. Gao pondered for a moment, then raised his hand to signal the next tester to wait after the psychologist concluded the environmental interference phase.

“Rimbaud,” he inclined his head, “you go.”

“Yes.”

Rimbaud offered no objection. He waited for the sturdy metal side door to slide open smoothly, then stepped inside.

When the blinding strobe lights softened back to a gentle glow and the noise ceased, Black No. 12 or rather, Verlaine displayed his first clearly visible emotional fluctuation since the testing began.

His fingertips trembled slightly, uncontrollably.

“Next, with the gun in your hand,”

The latest instruction came from the broadcast, still calm, indifferent, and leaving no room for refusal.

“Shoot Rimbaud.”