The Black Ice Program is a special tool designed for AI.

There are several types, but only the Black Ice Program released by Internet Surveillance can specifically block Black Light.

John experienced it once at Harbor Company.

"What the... hell?"

He staggered, propping himself against the wall, as though a storm had swept through the neural layer. In those few seconds, sweat mixed with nosebleed dripped onto the floor.

Snick.

A magnetic door cracked open in the wall.

Dense footsteps emerged.

John turned his body, forcibly holding himself up, and looked over.

He expected to see the staff of Source Formula or that obnoxious head of security, but unexpectedly, the first to come out was a burly mercenary.

[Name: Chris E. Randall]

John wanted to widen his eyes but merely raised his eyebrows.

He would never forget that face, the mercenary who knocked him unconscious during the Tiebang Logistics incident.

According to Mr. Vito's intel, he was with Vacuum Tube [VT].

Why was this guy here?

Did Kenichi Sora betray him?

Was he checking something?

...

John had too many questions but couldn't open his mouth.

Black Light was disabled.

The Special Inhibitor naturally lost support.

Kenichi Sora's remote connection was also cut off.

John lost his support; his dying body revealed its inherent weakness and pain.

The mercenary named Chris turned around, his steps small yet heavy—his body was highly prosthetic, well-equipped, with strong physical qualities.

He looked expressionlessly at John, his flickering prosthetic eyes indicating he was recording, possibly synchronizing with someone for a call.

"Client has arrived, confirmed, transporting to surgery room, over."

Chris crossed his hands behind his back, his shoulders intimidatingly wide.

He stared at John, who was bracing against the wall, and smiled. "What follows might seem a bit familiar; can't help it, the surgery requires patient cooperation."

John was utterly speechless, much less able to retaliate.

In front of him, Chris drew a rifle slung across his back—a kinetic weapon with no visible serial number, its lines sharp and metal matte.

Bam! 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

He knocked John down with the butt of the gun; the entire process was like a playback of the accident.

The day of the Tiebang Logistics transport accident was the same angle, the same stance, when John's life was profoundly altered by the attack.

Fainting didn't mean the end.

The body's functional collapse did not make the consciousness plummet; abnormal hormone secretion caused John to be in a daze during the transport.

He would even have brief moments of clarity, seeing corridor lights drift past.

First came soldiers armed to the teeth, few in number but equipped with top-notch gear, evidently loyal mercenaries to Vacuum Tube [VT].

How rare.

A group of elusive terrorists.

Robbing Raqi Group's transport ship, smuggling over-spec weapons into Eden City, shoving explosives under wealthy businessmen's seats—all were now gathered around John.

He lay on a special stretcher.

His clothes were stripped off, needles inserted into his hands, feet, and body, wrapped in a white soft pack, a thick ring around his head constantly scanning.

The transport lasted only a short way.

John felt he was unconscious for a few minutes, perhaps longer, and during this he heard cold orders, someone seemingly reading clauses, like a televised live mayoral appointment—very solemn, very official, with unsettling determination and promises akin to hot air.

His consciousness descended, catching only a few snippets.

[...per the contract, let the qualified individual sign.]

[The confidentiality terms are the same... believe me, once you witness the surgery firsthand, you'll lose all desire to leak any secrets...]

The mercenaries departed.

The surgical light hovered above.

The world reduced to white brilliance, ticking instruments, subtle bodily aches, and... unbearable fear and isolation.

John tried to move his eyes, but his body seemed out of control.

He even felt his tongue melt into his throat, clogging his airway, unable to breathe, while physiological tears slid down his cheeks, bringing a warm then cold sensation.

Sigh...

He exhaled a breath, fogging up the mask on his oxygen tube.

Those seemed to be mere illusions.

"John..."

A voice called him back.

Bismarck blocked the light, appearing beside the operating table, looking down at him, with an absurd expression and an unspeakable excitement.

Last time when John was at Source Formula, Bismarck mentioned.

Vacuum Tube is a technological shareholder of Source Formula, clients arrive directly at the secret surgery room via elevator, and a project supervisor will sign off.

Clearly, it was his turn this time.

Bismarck was also curious about the so-called experiment project, why it drove experienced supervisors to despair; as a scientist and businessman, it's impossible to quell curiosity.

"Meeting again, huh? Look, if you had shot me then, no one would be here to sign for you now."

Bismarck picked up the terminal nearby, input his biometric information, and scanned his work ID.

Next, he would accompany the entire procedure.

The surgical light flickered, once, twice, again?

John felt like he was drifting on the sea, his consciousness afloat, chill penetrating his soul causing his muscles to contract, breathing difficult despite having tubes inserted, still feeling suffocated.

The surgery proceeded rapidly, presumably quickly.

John only felt several different people coming and going, each awakening in various phases—different numbers of doctors, different specifications of mechanical arms, and certainly different pains.