I square my shoulders and stare down the rapidly approaching retard guard, my hands tightening on both the baton and revolver, ready for action. The air churns with spiritual energy as the retard guard begin prepping another one of their mental attacks. The Commander takes the lead in their formation, jogging at a brisk pace towards me with his bush hook pointed forward like a halberd, with the rest of the guardsmen following closely behind.

"I don't think I can double back to where the SUV is parked." I whisper to The Voice, "It would put me dangerously close to the servant's area denial field."

"Not a problem." The Voice reassures, "When I lost contact with you, I had pulled the SUV out to prevent a repeat of what happened at the hospital. Breakthrough the royal guard and make you way to the main road. I will extract you there."

"Sucks to be them." I mutter and settle into a fighting stance, "Is it immoral to hurt retarded people who don't know any better?"

"No more immoral than taking a life every week because you enjoy eating fried chicken." The Voice answers indifferently.

"Yeah. And I like staying alive even more than eating fried chicken." I agree.

The retard guard begin to fan out as they approach, steadily surrounding me. The majorette marches forward, beating her drum rhythmically, the rest of the retard guard pulsing their spirit cores in time with the beat before unleashing a concentrated blast of spirituality. The torrent of spiritual energy invades my body, but this time, I don't bother resisting. Once more, I experience the sensation of being filled to the brim with something fundamentally alien, but this time the feeling is coupled with a phantom noise made out of angry, incoherent shouting echoing throughout my head.

The majorette continues to pound away at her drum, the tempo rising higher and higher, stirring up the vortex of hostile spiritual energy surrounding me. The incomprehensible shouting in my head rises in volume and a strange compulsion grips my entire body. Its as if I know that I should be doing something, but simply have no idea what that is.

"What are the retards doing?" I ask The Voice.

The Voice rasps in an amused tone, "I believe they are performing a psychic attack to force you into committing suicide."

"Shit. That's vicious." I mutter and aim the revolver at the majorette, her face locked in an expression of complete concentration with sweat rolling down her forehead.

The revolver makes its trademark angry bark and the majorette's head promptly disappears in a cloud of blood and shattered bone thanks to the sick head shot. The body of the girl totters unsteadily, as if it had been taken by surprise by the loss of its head, before slumping spreadeagled on the ground. The spiritual energies conjured by the retard guard snap backwards like a stretched rubber band that has been released and the backlash sends the lot staggering backwards, with some members being driven to their knees.

"How?" the Commander mumbles while nursing a nosebleed, his eyes staring off into the distance. While most of the retard guard are left groaning and moaning from the unexpected setback, Peter Pan draws his machete and rushes at me with his teeth bared and the weapon raised high.

Slow, pathetically slow. Peter Pan might as well be moving through tar at the speed he's running at me. The revolver's barrel pivots neatly to meet this new threat and the gun thunders again, a bullet slamming squarely into Peter Pan's torso. The teenager is sent flying backwards with his chest blasted open, crashing into the old man clad in football gear. The pair go down in a tumble, Peter Pan's blood smearing all over the dusty concrete.

The retard guard isn't really all that dangerous after all. But then again I'm probably selling them short. Its easy to feel good when you're effectively immune to their most powerful technique. If I was a local, things would have probably gotten ugly, or at the very least incredibly complicated by now.

My inner musing is broken by a sudden surge of spiritual energy coming from the Commander. Cursing my lapse in attention, I draw a bead on him with the revolver and open fire, but unlike the others, the Commander is fast. His head ducks low, easily evading the gunshot and he scuttles across the ground in a blur. Guess there's a good reason why the Commander became the commander. The man's certainly the pick of the the admittedly poor litter.

The bush hook thrusts outwards in a practiced motion and the curved blade hooks around my right leg. With a grunt of effort, the Commander kicks off the ground and sends his body into a spin, pulling savagely at the bush hook all the while. I feel the heat of the sharpened curve of the blade as it digs into my leg, the bush hook seeking to tear my limb apart.

But between The Voice's protection and a gardening tool, there's really no contest. An audible snap comes from the bush hook and the blade snaps into two from trying its luck against an indestructible object. The loss of his weapon completely throws the Commander off his game as he lands on his feet, blinking in surprise and bewilderment, a useless piece of junk held in both hands.

As the Commander stupidly opens and closes his mouth, I slam the baton hard into his legs, sending the man crashing down like a falling tree.

"No! New friend, mercy, please mer -" the Commander pleads as I raise the leg he had tried to chop off and aim my foot straight at his head. My foot plunges downwards like a pile driver, hitting the man squarely in the forehead and shattering his skull like an egg. There's a wet squelching sound as my foot extricates itself from the grayish red pulp and the remaining retard guards scramble backwards in panic at the sight of me cleaning my shoe on the Commander's jacket.

"Transmigrator, the blind spot is growing again." The Voice warns, "Stop playing around and escape."

From the corner of my eye I can tell that The Voice is right. The red thread is growing outwards from the servant's apartment, crawling downwards along the building's wall towards ground level. The servant must be up and about again. I need to move before I'm caught up in the red threads again.

I deliver a hard kick to the Commander's corpse, sending it flying towards the retard guards, causing them to scatter in dismay. Taking advantage of the opening, I bull rush through the group, the red thread snapping at my heels. My feet hammer furiously against the concrete as I rush towards a gap between the buildings that will take me out of the estate.

"You are not moving quickly enough." The Voice states, "The blind spot is catching up with you."

No shit. I feel the oncoming wave of pressure closing in. The servant is now building her anti Voice field at a much faster rate compared to the previous encounter at the hospital. If what happened at the flat is any indication, Celeste is managing this feat by concentrating her powers within a single designated area, rather than expanding the field throughout the surroundings as a whole.

That means if I can't escape the servant at ground level, I will need to take the high road.

I cut hard towards the wall of one of the buildings and perform a flying leap, propelling myself upwards. Grasping the eaves of a window, my arms pump explosively, sending me flying upwards again all the way to the roof, barely managing to avoid the incoming tidal wave of crimson which washes over the lower levels. As the red threads thrash about in a vain attempt at seeking me out, I sprint across the roof to build up some speed, my eyes fixated on the building just next to the estate itself.

I let the knowledge buried in the core take over and my body becomes taut with tension, reactions set on autopilot. I lunge forward into a gymnast's flip and catapult myself through the air, both arms crossed over my chest. The whole world spins as my body slices across the void between the buildings, the dizzy spin causing me to feel like hurling. I swallow down on the unpleasant feeling and keep my focus as the next building draws closer, swinging my legs downwards just in time to manage a flawless landing on my feet.

Champion gymnast, full marks. Gold, no, platinum medal. I smile to myself as the self praise floods in.

"Transmigrator, the danger is not over yet." The Voice barks in alarm as the wall of the estate's C block blows outwards, showering masonry on the streets below. From the hole in the building I see the squarish, clanking forms of mecha painted in the colors of ORPO. Brandishing their axes threateningly at me, the trio of mecha fire the jet nozzles mounted on their backs, sending their ungainly bulk sailing through the air towards my location.

"That's another mystery solved." I remark.

"Yes, the missing ORPO squad." The Voice confirms, "However they are just a distraction. Keep moving."

The crimson web seethes with restless energy and washes outwards, engulfing the lower levels of the building I am standing on. The red thread then wraps itself securely around the building and starts working its way upwards.

"Did you program parkour into the artificial core?" I ask while breaking into a run again.

"What is that?" The Voice asks totally mystified over the noise of the approaching mechas' jets.

"Never mind." I grit my teeth, "I'll make do."

"After all, its not everyday you get to do something new."