Ghost Player's Tricks Backfire, The Director Falls to the Actors

"I let my guard down, seriously. How did that woman make my magnetic ring disappear?" Amid the chaos, Ghost Player hurried down the corridor. Countless soldiers rushed past, asking for orders, and he sent all of them to that so-called sanctuary. He had no intention of facing Jill Young again—Nightfall would never die anyway, so let those grunts pile up their bodies.

"Priority is reconnecting my severed arm." His right arm had been torn off at the root, but instead of blood, a strange green liquid oozed from the wound, like a chemical spill from an industrial pipe. As he moved forward, the turmoil inside the Heart of the World kept intensifying. Soon, another massive explosion echoed, the shockwave knocking ordinary soldiers off their feet. Ghost Player picked up his pace.

The second power reactor had overloaded and exploded too.

The Heart of the World had nine power reactors in total—eight arranged in a ring, and one right in the center. All its weapons, even those flying shuttles patrolling the sky, drew energy from these nine reactors. Blowing up two was still manageable, but if this kept up, things would get seriously out of hand.

After weaving through a long corridor, Ghost Player finally reached a secluded room. The place was spacious and dim, filled with cylindrical incubators, organs floating in the nutrient fluid. Clearly, this was Ghost Player's lab.

He smashed one of the incubator columns with a punch, pulled out a right arm, and attached it to his shoulder. Tiny black threads tangled and twisted at the wound, and in less than half a minute, Ghost Player flexed his new arm—installation complete.

"Oh, so they're modular organs, huh."

A voice rang out, startling Ghost Player. "Who's there?" He spun around to see a middle-aged man in a white lab coat and slippers, strolling out of the shadows, speaking lazily: "Swapping parts like yours is convenient, but the connection strength is probably a joke. Overall? Failed product." It was Lazy Doctor.

Ghost Player's gaze turned sinister, but Lazy Doctor quickly waved his hands: "Relax, I'm just looking for a place to nap—didn't expect to run into you. No need to be nervous, I can't beat you anyway."

"Who the hell are you?" Ghost Player gave Lazy Doctor a once-over. "And how do you know about modular organs?"

"Me? You can call me Lazy Doctor." Lazy Doctor's eyes flashed with a light that only true masters in their field possess. "You must be Ghost Player, right? As a surgeon, I've heard plenty about you."

"Oh? So you're Lazy Doctor?" Ghost Player clearly knew the name. "Not exactly a nobody, huh."

Scientists, once they get into research mode, are more shut-in than any hardcore otaku—nothing can distract them, not even the apocalypse. Ghost Player had been working alone for a hundred years, desperate for a peer to discuss his findings. That's why he went to find Jill Young yesterday. Today, meeting Lazy Doctor, he was intrigued, even knowing Lazy Doctor was an enemy intruder. He could snap this ordinary man like a twig, but still, he asked, "So, you got issues with my work?"

"No real issues. The whole 'mighty physique' thing? Genius idea. I’ve read your immortality research logs, too—very imaginative and creative." Ghost Player was pleased, until Lazy Doctor’s next line made him explode: "But unfortunately, it’s all defective."

"What did you say, you bastard!" Ghost Player moved faster than Lazy Doctor could react, grabbed his collar, and lifted him off the ground. "You dare call my work defective?!"

"A scientist deals in facts. Defective means defective." Even dangling in midair, Lazy Doctor was as laid-back as ever. "Take your zombies, for example—huge flaw. Not just me, even Jill Young has come up with a weapon that’s super effective against them. By now, Four-Eyed Kid has probably calmed things down in the Eighth District."

"Impossible!" Ghost Player tossed Lazy Doctor aside and slammed a button on the console. Instantly, a screen lit up, showing the Eighth District: desolate, ruined, zombies everywhere, mutant creatures prowling nonstop—a total hellscape. "See? My bio-weapons are flawless!"

But the very next moment, every speaker in the Eighth District blasted a single voice, and every screen lit up with the same figure—none other than Jill Young. On screen, Jill rocked a shiny black suit and a round little hat. Behind her, all the No One Under Heaven officers lined up in a perfect triangle for a dance routine.

"Bollywood breakdancing? Please, that's weak sauce!" On screen, Jill pointed at the camera. "When it comes to zombie dancing, it's gotta be 'Thriller!'"

As all the zombies stared in a daze, the speakers blasted a groovy beat. Jill and her crew snapped their fingers in perfect sync. The zombies tried to breakdance, but Jill and the No One Under Heaven leaders started toe-tapping and head-bobbing to the rhythm. Jill popped her hips, twisted her waist, spun around, her suit tails flying. Then, Jill began to sing.