Alarm bells sound the same everywhere—no matter the tune, you’re never going to hear a lullaby as a siren. Tonight, Londoners—and everyone in the surrounding cities—aren’t getting any sleep. The shrill wail of sirens rises and falls, police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances darting through the streets. Overhead, the sky rumbles with the thunderous roar of armed helicopters on patrol. If anything goes wrong, one word from the military and the heavy-caliber cannons will rain down without a second thought.
The Shanghai massacre is still fresh in everyone’s minds, and now the whole world flinches at the words "terror attack." No one can sleep. People turn on their TVs, log onto social media, desperate and anxious to figure out what’s going on.
Honestly, they’re hoping to hear the anchor say something like "gas explosion" or "chemical warehouse accident." That’s the kind of news you can rant about, roast the authorities online, shed a few tears for the innocent, and send some flowers. The anger, the tears, the tributes—they’re all real. But at least you don’t have to sit there, lips trembling, face pale, genuinely worried you’ll be next.
But when they turn on the TV, the very first word out of the anchor’s mouth is: "terror attack."
"Tonight, London has suffered a major bombing and terror attack..."
News of the attack spreads at lightning speed, radiating out from the Empire on which the sun never sets to the whole world. There’s plenty of weirdness and secrecy about the incident, and of course London’s officials want to cover up as much as they can. But in a situation like this, trying to hide the truth is a Herculean task.
And, naturally, all this dirty work gets dumped on MI5.
After the think tank pooled all the intel and ran their analysis, the conclusion was clear: this so-called terror attack was really just two different factions ambushing each other. As for Britain, London, Buckingham Palace, Her Majesty the Queen, and all the terrified citizens—they were just collateral damage, dragged into the battlefield for no reason.
When the city gates catch fire, the fish in the moat get cooked—London’s the fish this time. But an old powerhouse like this isn’t just any fish; it’s a T-Rex that goes berserk when provoked. Someone’s got to take responsibility. Someone’s got to pay for this mess!
MI5 is packed with elite agents—investigation is liquid mercury, infiltration is airtight, action is lightning-fast, and operations run like clockwork. Every one of them is like a spiritual clone of legendary agent James Bond. But tonight, after hours of frantic work, even this crack team is breaking out in cold sweat. The deeper they dig, the scarier and more unbelievable it all gets.
The Zade Family and the SD Syndicate—those names alone are enough to send a chill down the spine of every agent involved. Their secrets are so deep and dark it scares even the bravest.
"Wait, are you telling me Princess Diana’s death on August 31, 1997, was actually the work of the SD Syndicate?!"
Everyone in the business knows what the SD Syndicate does. But now, the whole Princess Diana car crash—and whether her death was even real—has become one big, shadowy question mark.
With the investigation digging this deep, even the sharpest agents feel a chill run down their spine. They have a hunch—if they keep following the Zade Family and SD Syndicate leads, they’ll be in way over their heads. Even MI5’s top agents, who’ve spent years dealing with the underbelly of society, can sense this case is on a whole other level.
The commander knows this is a bottomless pit—no way he’s jumping in without a plan. So he switches gears: "We still haven’t identified the actual perpetrators of this terror attack. The old scandals can wait. What about the other side? Who did the Zade Family try to assassinate this time? Who was it that blocked the bullet meant for the Queen?"
Someone answers, "There’s no footage at all—nothing from Buckingham Palace’s internal cameras, nothing from the street cams, not even any bystander cell phone videos. Nothing clear, nothing useful."
The commander frowns. "Nothing at all? What about the reporters at the ceremony? Didn’t they get anything on camera?"
The agent shakes his head. "All recording equipment—hard drives, flash memory, anything that could store data—was destroyed. No one knows how they managed to wipe out so many devices in an instant. That means these people came prepared. Even while escaping, they kept everything under wraps. Honestly, boss, they’re pros—at least one of them is a master at this game. They handled the chase, then struck back right after the bombing. From all this, it looks like the Zade Family got played."
The commander thinks for a moment, then makes a decision: "Sir Wilson was at the ceremony. Not many people know he’s a brilliant artist. Contact him right away and have him draw a reconstruction—we need to identify the other party. Their appearance, gender, abilities, even just a codename. You’ve seen the Zade Family base after the attack. We can’t afford to know nothing about an enemy like this."
"Uh, about the codename—we actually do have a lead on one of them."
"What's the codename?"
"It's... uh... Jason Bond."
From that moment on, a mysterious figure known as Jason Bond instantly popped up on the radar of intelligence agencies worldwide.
And while all of Britain was losing its mind, the mysterious Jason Bond was chilling in an old house in London’s historic district. No matter how loud things got outside, his only job in that big old mansion was... uh, tending the boiler.
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Jonathan Black tossed a few logs into the fireplace. The flames roared, sending warmth through ancient pipes to every room in the mansion. The heating system might be ancient, but it’s surprisingly efficient—December’s chill is banished completely. Thick brick walls keep out the noise, so the sirens outside are barely audible.
As he tended the fire, Jonathan Black was also gathering intel through every channel he could.
"BIG-BOSS, the whole world’s in an uproar. Every platform’s pushing today’s news. In the West especially, search volume has shot past a million. But interestingly, most reports are focused on that riverside chase and explosion. Hardly anyone’s talking about the Zade Family’s assets or the base raid."
Tonight’s big events? Technically, there are two and a half. First, the massive street chase in London—that one’s self-explanatory. Second, the raid on the Zade Family’s secret base, which was just as dramatic. The half event? The assassination attempt at Buckingham Palace. It’s really just the opening act of the big chase, but since Elizabeth got dragged in, it counts as half.
But out of those two and a half, everyone’s focused on just one—the other half barely gets a mention.
Creak, creak. Jill Young lounged in a rocking chair, legs crossed, fiddling with her newly acquired magic gun. "Looks like the intel we tossed MI5 is working just fine. That punch landed square on the Zade Family’s nose—no way the British government’s letting them off the hook. I don’t know how much impact it’ll have, but messing with Old Zade is enough to make my day."
"Speaking of which, I just remembered something." Jonathan Black turned to Jill Young, eyes bright. "I’ve been thinking about that black muscle monster. I’m worried there’s something fishy—maybe it’s a trap."
"No wonder. You seemed distracted during the base raid." Jill Young twirled the magic gun around her finger, unfazed. "So, what’d you remember?"
"That muscle monster seemed oddly familiar. When you mentioned landing a punch right on the nose, it hit me—I remembered someone. Do you recall Wolf Maddox?" Jonathan leaned closer.
Jill Young shook her head. "Nope."
"He was a sparring partner, a backup puncher," Jonathan traced the shape of a mask over his face. "Back when I was Ghostface, he was the best of the backups. After I let him go, I lost track of him—never thought I’d run into him here."
Jill Young tried to recall, still shook her head. "I’ve fished through Dreamsea’s leftovers and still don’t remember such a minor character."
"Right, I never told you his name. But the day you had your ‘interview,’ Apo sent him in to test you. You grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into the ground, and knocked him out with three punches. Ring a bell?"
"Oh, oh, oh!" Jill Young clapped her right fist into her left palm, suddenly remembering. "He’s the idiot who tried to sneak up on me while I was looking in the mirror, right? Got it, got it!"
Remembered for his stupidity, Wolf Maddox is a character in his own right...
"So it was him. No wonder he kept spouting nonsense. Now it all makes sense." Jill Young pinched her chin. "My guess? He’s got the legendary Ancestor’s Blood—mixed with the Vampire Progenitor and Werewolf King’s bloodlines. That’s how he turned into that black muscle monster. The rich rely on tech, the poor rely on mutation—some things never change."
"I still think his appearance is weird," Jonathan Black mused. "By the way, what’s his Heavenly Ranking?"
"He’s pretty flashy—he’s been showing off for ages. I only saw a card, but I’m sure it’s him." Jill Young poked at her phone. "See? He’s ranked in the top 200. He might be an idiot, but you can’t deny his mutated body is almost at Dragon-Elephant Level Seven. For a guy like that to only be top 200, it means the world’s Chosen Ones are really hustling. Oh, and I took out a bunch of high-rankers today—maybe my own ranking’s due for a boost? Lemme check, hehehe~"
Jill Young gleefully refreshed her ranking page, like a forum poster waiting for replies. Jonathan Black, meanwhile, was still uneasy. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on his face. After a long silence, he slowly shook his head. "No, something’s off."
"What’s off?"
"Everything about this case is off. Ever since that giant SD ship, things have been weird."