Defeat sat heavy in Alan's chest, a leaden weight. The cold assessment verdict ("S-Class Potential, F-Class Control, A-Class Risk") and Master Arnold's dismissal ("Intractable!") were knives twisting in his wounded pride. The sweat of the training grid, Lena's sharp commands, Fenrir's open scorn – all underscored the humiliation. Curled on his sterile bed, he felt like a rogue bolt in the Wardens' precise machine – uncontrolled, likely to jam the gears.
Grandfather was his only anchor. The daily "Condition stable, under observation" from Lena was the sole light in his gloom. He haunted the medical bay corridor, gazing through thick observation glass at the still, peaceful yet profoundly lifeless face. Who attacked him? Why steal the sandalwood box? What secret had Grandfather guarded to invite such violence? Questions coiled like venomous vines, offering no answers. The Wardens focused on "Ouroboros," treating Grandfather's past and secret as an inconvenient footnote.
One afternoon, after another bruising combat session under Fenrir's mocking gaze, Alan limped back to his room, muscles screaming. Before the door shut, rapid footsteps interrupted.
"Alan! Alan! Got something! Big!" Simon burst in, hair wild, glasses askew, face a mix of excitement and sleep-deprived exhaustion, waving a datapad like a banner.
Alan's heart lurched. "What? Grandfather?"
"Indirect! But key!" Simon panted, shoving the pad at him. Complex energy waveform analyses filled the screen, alongside dense data streams and chemical formulae. "Remember the energy residue from the 'Bai Cao Tang' attack? That cold, corrosive, decaying stuff? I've been analyzing it!"
Alan remembered. The terror, the despair, the stench of burnt herbs mixed with violence. "What did you find?"
"Look here!" Simon zoomed in on a waveform peak, comparing it to another from a database.
"92.7% match! This unique signature only points to one thing: 'Entropy Gel'! Highly dangerous, banned by London's black markets and every legitimate alchemical guild!"
"Entropy Gel?" Alan frowned. The name itself felt ominous.
"Yeah! Alchemy blended with dark magic!" Simon lowered his voice, eyes alight with techno-mania. "Core component: a degraded derivative of 'Touch of Entropy' Prime Glyph theory! Accelerates molecular decay and energy drain, like localized 'Withering,' but focused, destructive! Used for breaching charges or… targeted toxins against Animates! Complex to make, rare ingredients. Whoever used this isn't street trash!"
A chill ran through Alan. "So, attackers were masters of forbidden alchemy? Likely Ouroboros core?"
"High probability!" Simon nodded vigorously. "And this stuff has tiny circulation. I hacked encrypted darknet nodes, tracked recent transactions. One suspicious drop-off happened in the East End! Days before the attack! Seller info is crypto-washed, but it proves the attackers scouted locally or had a contact!"
This was a solid lead to Ouroboros! Alan felt a spark. "The drop location? More details?"
"Still digging. Encryption's thick. Needs time." Simon scratched his head. "But! Wait! There's this!" He pulled a small, carefully sealed evidence bag from his pocket.
Inside was a fragment of charred parchment. Edges irregular, most of it blackened to a crisp, only a small central area showing faint traces of what looked like special ink.
"Where… where is this from?" Alan's pulse hammered.
"Under your Grandfather's bed!" Simon spoke rapidly. "Med team found it during deep clean, moving the bed. Hidden in a tiny, recessed compartment in the bed frame! Must've shoved it there during the attack, or it was already hidden! Compartment had faint protective runes, so it survived… barely. This is all that's left!"
Alan's hands trembled as he took the bag. This fragile scrap was what Grandfather protected with his life! A link to his past! He held it close, examining it. The parchment felt rough, ancient. Amidst the charring, faint, deep brown ink marks were visible: fragmented Celtic Runes. The lines were ancient, flowing, imbued with a primal sense of nature. One resembled gnarled tree branches, another entwined thorns. Below them, barely legible, partly burned away: "...ping F...est".
"Epping Forest!" The name burst from Alan's lips. The vast, ancient Royal Forest northeast of London! Sanctum of the Wildheart Druids! Grandfather's clue pointed there! It fit perfectly with his earlier forest sensing and Grandfather's connection to the Wildheart!
"Bingo! Rune analysis confirms an 80%+ match to Epping Forest!" Simon jabbed excitedly at his datapad. "See this rune? Oak leaf and thorn blend? Classic Druidic ward! And this one? Marks 'ancient' or 'source'! Fragmented, yes, but this is key! Your Grandfather's secret is probably hidden somewhere in that forest!"
Hope, a fragile flame, rekindled in Alan. Epping Forest! Grandfather's clue! This was more direct, more personal than any Warden investigation! He wanted to bolt from the safehouse now!
"Simon! That's incredible! Thank you!" Alan gripped Simon's shoulders, elated. "We have to go! Now!"
"Uh… theoretically, yes." Simon flushed at Alan's intensity, then looked troubled. "But Alan, protocol demands all evidence, especially this sensitive, gets logged and analyzed by the proper departments first. We… can't just go."
The cold water of reality doused Alan's fire. "Report it? To Thorne? To people who see me as a 'risk vector'?" He recalled Thorne's inscrutable gaze, Arnold's cold assessment, the Warden's icy logic of "procedure." "No! Simon! This is what Grandfather *died protecting*! It's about his past, maybe why he's like this! I can't hand it over to be locked in an archive or bargained with!"
"But… protocol…" Simon looked torn, understanding Alan's passion but bound by ingrained Warden discipline.
The door slammed open! Fenrir's bulk filled the frame. He'd clearly overheard, especially "Epping Forest." His amber eyes fixed on the evidence bag in Alan's hand, nostrils flaring as if scenting the parchment. Disgust and wariness etched his features.
"Forest? Druid den?" Fenrir's voice was a low growl of hostility. He stepped in, his presence making the small room feel cramped. "What scheme you weaving now, pup? That's no place for wolves! Those tree-whispering root-kissers? All tricks and poisoned weeds!" His prejudice against the Wildheart ran deep.
"None of your business, Fenrir!" Alan instinctively clutched the bag behind his back, meeting the werewolf's glare. "This is my Grandfather's clue! I need answers!"
"Answers? Looks like a death wish!" Fenrir scoffed. His hand shot out, lightning-fast, aimed at the evidence bag! "This filth could be a trap! Hand it over! To Lena or Thorne!"
"Stop!" Alan recoiled in shock and anger, but Fenrir was too fast! The werewolf's calloused fingers were inches from the bag—
A blur of motion intervened! Lena appeared in the doorway, faster than sight. Her strike was precise, deflecting Fenrir's wrist with unyielding force.
"Enough, Fenrir!" Lena positioned herself between Alan and the werewolf, her icy gaze sweeping over them. "No unauthorized conflict in the safehouse! That's an order!"
Fenrir snarled, pulled back, radiating fury like a challenged beast, but held in check by Lena's authority, his eyes burning into Alan. "Lena! The pup's hiding key evidence! Wants to go to Epping Forest! Who knows what he's planning!"
Lena's gaze shifted to Alan, to the evidence bag clutched in his hand, to the mix of fervor, anger, and pleading on his face. Her eyes were analytical blades.
"Mr. Shaw," her voice remained level, unreadable, "Simon's report and this evidence require immediate logging per protocol. Any follow-up requires Mr. Thorne's authorization and Action Department coordination." She extended her hand. "The evidence. Now."
Alan's heart plummeted. Procedure. Again. He looked at Lena's outstretched hand, emblem of the Warden's cold order, then down at the fragile scrap of hope Grandfather had died to save. A wave of bitter frustration and defiance surged.
"No!" Alan's voice shook with emotion. He stepped back, pressing the bag protectively against his chest. "This is my Grandfather's! It's the only lead to find who hurt him, to find the truth! I won't hand it over! To you, it's just a case number! You don't care about him! You only care if I'm a 'risk'!"
"Alan!" Simon cried out, alarmed.
"Mind your tone, Mr. Shaw!" Lena's eyes flashed cold, her voice gaining an edge. "The Wardens are treating your Grandfather! The investigation is ongoing! Protocol ensures efficiency and integrity! Rogue actions jeopardize the investigation, your safety, and your Grandfather's! Hand. It. Over!"
The air crackled. Alan felt the pressure radiating from Lena. Fenrir watched, a predatory smirk twisting his lips. Simon wrung his hands, speechless.
Alan met Lena's icy blue stare, then looked down at the charred parchment holding his Grandfather's legacy. Images flooded him: Grandfather falling, the smell of burnt herbs, his gentle eyes teaching breath control. Warden procedure? Efficiency? Integrity? They felt hollow against Grandfather's life and the truth!
"Protocol?" Alan lifted his head, eyes blazing with suppressed fire, his voice low but fierce. "If protocol means abandoning the only lead to Grandfather's attackers… If protocol means locking the only hope in a cold archive… Then your protocol means nothing to me!"
He shoved the evidence bag deep into his inner pocket, his gaze defiant. "The clue stays with me! Want it? You'll have to arrest me!" He'd drawn the line. For Grandfather, he'd defy the machine.
Lena's pupils contracted minutely. She studied the sudden, fierce rebellion in the boy before her, the intensity momentarily surprising. Fenrir rumbled deep in his chest, muscles coiling.
The tension was a live wire.
"Very well." Lena slowly lowered her hand, her voice colder than the void. "Simon, log Mr. Shaw's refusal to surrender critical evidence. Fenrir, stand down. This will be reported to Mr. Thorne." Her final look at Alan held complex scrutiny. "Pending further instruction, Mr. Shaw, you are confined to quarters. Effective immediately. That is an order."
She didn't seize the evidence, but the cold command and impending report isolated Alan further, deepening the danger. Lena turned and left, footsteps steady. Fenrir bared his teeth at Alan in a final snarl and followed. Simon gave Alan a worried glance, sighed, grabbed his datapad, and hurried after Lena – he had a report to file.
The door slid shut behind them, the soft click of the auto-lock echoing in the sudden silence. Alan slumped against the cold metal door, sliding down to the floor. He gasped for breath, the confrontation draining his courage. Trembling, he pulled the small evidence bag from his pocket, clutching it tightly.
The charred edge bit into his palm. The blurred Celtic runes, the fragment "Epping Forest" – his beacon of hope had become the shackle binding him to this steel cage. Grandfather slept. The clue was in his hand. The forest felt within reach, yet barred by cold protocols and Lena's inscrutable gaze.
He rested his forehead on his knees, the evidence bag pressed hard against his heart. The simulated light outside faded. The safehouse's constant temperature couldn't warm the chill of helplessness spreading through him. Grandfather, what do I do? The silent cry echoed in his mind. The only answer came from the corner of the room: the unwavering red light of the camera, cold and silent, recording his despair.