The Silver Tree has made the messenger emerge from other domes to the Grand Dome, at least it was their original plan. It changed from annihilating a force of cultists to evacuating the helpless civilians and went as far as to get rid of an existence.

So the wind scratches Michael’s face on the deck of the aircraft.

It is the second day of him gaining his realm-arts; pain from the implant ritual still hurts his spine. The bronze hand that he has summoned carries his responsibility and equipment for this mission.

From the words of Josh, Michael heard something about Existences and a limb of an Unknown Existence that has been neutralized by some unknown force.

He slowly and carefully, like walking in a forest of swords, processes this information. From Suiming, he has learned an important lesson:

Carefulness is the only way of survival; doubt is a tool for carefulness.

Michael reaches into his pocket and takes out a white pill that has a rough surface. He then lets the pill pass through his throat.

Then the engines' roar stops, and the sound of mechanics cracking like joints floats through. The aircraft stops a few hundred meters away from the dome.

As he moves the metallic cold boxes that reflect his team's emotionless masks and expressionless blue coats, the engine of the frontline messenger's aircraft shoots through the air. Luckily, none of his teammates or he will be inside the dome. The roles they play in this operation are like blacksmiths in the ancient times - logistics.

Then he feels warmth on his shoulder.

"Michael?" says a familiar voice.

"Suiming?"

"Why are you here?" Michael says near Suiming's ear. He looks around and then he continues, "Aren't you in the violet list?" He said the last two words extra quietly.

"Oh, so I convinced the members of the Letter-Writer chamber, and they let me become a partner for messengers," he says with a smile, friendly yet somehow disturbing.

Looks like the lesson he learned from Suiming didn't apply to Suiming himself.

"Just asking, what is the side effect of your realm-arts?" Suiming asks while his finger points at the bronze hand with green joints that floats midair.

"It consumes metal in my body."

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"How long does each summon last?" Suiming continues asking while he opens up the cases that Michael has moved.

"About ten minutes, I'm not sure."

Suiming's hands pick out some silver-colored columns and cylinders that have shining epigraphs on them. They look heavy but are light as feathers when someone holds them in their hands.

He assembles the device as quickly as the wind. The epigraphs shine even brighter and eventually form a gate to an unknown place that hooks humans' curiosity.

"Gate four, activated," says an electronic voice from the frame of that electronic portal.

"Alright, I'm going to the front line," Suiming says to Michael while waving his hands.

"Take care of Neon!" Suiming adds.

"She's here? When?" he asks, but then realizes another problem, a bigger one.

"SINCE WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO THE FRONT LINE?"

"Y'know, the old fellas in the chamber never told me where to go, so..."

"Geronimo!"

...

Meanwhile, inside the dome.

Nameless didn't continue the conversation; she turns around as her white hair twirls in the air.

If they already knew it, then there is nothing to hide. If they didn't know it, it isn't a problem anyway; she comforts herself. What's important now is to buy time for Suiyin. After all, the feeling of using her own power is better than using the power of that thing sealed inside her.

An unnamed feeling crawlsup Nameless' spine. It is like a cocktail of nostalgia, depression, and even excitement. The cocktail of emotions melts in her mind, driving her to use her dusty power.

Suiyin and Canvas didn't see it, but from the eye of Nameless, a droplet of tear flees away. The feeling of nostalgia and being forsaken hits Nameless' mind.

Realm-arts: Rosmarin.

The side effect quickly kicks into her memory, scratching off one of the many faces that she remembers. Nameless hopes that the one she forgot is just a bypasser in her life, but not someone important.

Her realm-arts can summon things that were once forgotten. When the evocation ends, the things that shined briefly will go back to being forgotten.

So the once-forgotten giant mask of the obscure idol solidifies.

The mask she evoked has no emotion, only a pair of twirling mustaches and a pair of half-closed eyes that are carved with an unknown material. There is a mechanism on what appears to be its jaw.

"Eposos... miterald... es... quescendo," the obscure language comes out of the titanic mask's half-open mouth. The words were like chains, chains of the past that bind the Serpent Father.

The spell slows down the Serpent Father's movement for a minute or longer.

Then the mask shatters, and the words that it whispered stop at the last syllable, like the last sigh of a withered one. For the Existences, the mask's words were like a mosquito's hum.

"Are you done yet?" Nameless asks.

"One more step, and it's done."

The ritual is the same as the previous evocation ritual, as if they came out of the same mold. Different talisman, same idol, same place, different usage.

The talismans burn in a sky-touching flame but do not release any heat. They are just there, burning, lurking, and ignoring.

From what they see, the ritual is doing its job as it was meant to. The Serpent Father is slowly fading away, leaving a thin layer of indescribable flesh midair.

Until the red door opens.

A man covered in a strange color and wounds that show off his broken bones "rolls" out of the door. His eyes are sand, and his legs are breaking apart. Drips of blood hang from him, solid like vines on the gateway to the underworld.