Inside the niche-like base of Sector 91, time seemed to stand still as everyone inside remained frozen in a variety of postures.

As the base passed through the space-time portal, a burst of orange-yellow light instantly swept across the bodies and the instruments within. From most people, a twisted phantom of their form emerged, as if their souls were being dragged out by some force, slowly dissipating into the air.

In addition to the orange-yellow light, the rift contained numerous solidified fragments and a few orange-yellow polyhedral crystals scattered aimlessly in the air, turning to powder upon impact and diffusing throughout the base. This powdery substance from the fragments merged with the bodies from which the souls had vanished.

Among the majority whose souls had dispersed, a very few did not experience soul detachment but underwent even stranger transformations. Their body parts gradually faded, turning their skin, muscles, and bones transparent as crystal until they resembled black line sketches. These sketches then contracted into black dots, which in turn expanded back into sketches of human form, regenerating organs, bones, tendons, and skin, until they were whole humans once more.

After Sector 91's base returned to normal, those who had lost their souls collapsed, while the modern electronic devices that had been struck by the orange-yellow light sparked and exploded, the sounds reverberating throughout the base.

...

In Quentin's cell, the steam restraining suit propped against the wall also flickered with tiny sparks.

"Clack!" A piece of the suit's right arm fell to the floor, revealing a pale, slender arm that reached out to peel away the now powerless magnetic steel parts.

Soon, a young man with a calm expression emerged from the suit, appearing in the midst of the cell...

Quentin glanced at the bodies sprawled on the ground, his eyes quickly drawn to the "Necro Noticee" that Lincoln had left aside. His brows raised slightly as he stepped forward and picked up his own "Necro Noticee."

The black-framed "Necro Noticee," a thin tablet computer storing inmate data, was deployed by guards to announce death sentences, earning it the grim nickname from the inmates. The moment it appeared, it was as if the Reaper had taken notice.

Quentin's attention to the "Necro Noticee" stemmed from the bizarre scenes he had "witnessed" moments before.

During the space-time transmission, while most in Sector 91 were frozen, a few retained their consciousness, Quentin included. As his body was disintegrated by the orange-yellow light, his soul became even more aware, "seeing" the events unfold in his cell.

The stillness of bodies, the disintegration and reformation of his own form...

The sparks from the steam suit and the bulletproof fluorescent lights...

A polyhedral orange-yellow crystal colliding with the "Necro Noticee," merging into the simple computer...

In fact, the many orange-yellow fragments from the transmission were fragments of this world's laws, and the rare polyhedral crystals were more complete fragments of certain laws and principles.

The world that Sector 91's base now resided in could not sustain Earth's life forms. Apart from a few special souls, most human souls had dissipated, leaving their bodies as "dead objects."

The "Necro Noticee," upon Quentin's touch, transformed into a black light and fused into his palm.

Quentin paused, examining his hand to see a small, egg-shaped pattern in his palm. It was primarily black with speckles of orange-yellow, resembling a strange little egg.

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Interesting! A glint of fascination crossed Quentin's eyes. He stood up, stretched, and turned his attention to the bodies on the floor. Besides himself, there were Lincoln and his two bodyguards, as well as two federal soldiers stationed at the door.

Quentin crouched down, checking the pulse of a bodyguard, only to find him cold and pulseless. However, upon inspecting Lincoln, he discovered the young heir still breathing, his pulse steady—he was alive.

Tilting his head, Quentin flipped Lincoln over, reached into his suit's inner pocket, and retrieved the crescent-shaped dagger, slipping his thumb into the ring at the end and holding it in reverse grip.

After securing the blade, Quentin did not immediately leave the cell. Instead, he smiled faintly, tracing the dagger's edge along Lincoln's cheek, sliding it gently.

The young scion's eyelids trembled, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and sensing Quentin's increasing pressure, he could no longer feign unconsciousness and reluctantly opened his eyes.

"Are you Quentin now, or still Joey Foster?" Lincoln stuttered.

"Wake up; let's go see what's happening outside. Something strange seems to have occurred in the prison," Quentin responded with a benign smile rather than answering Lincoln's question. The warmth of the smile was so disarming that Lincoln stared, his mind in turmoil. Was this the infamous "Dissector"?

After startling Lincoln awake, Quentin paid him no more heed. He stood and approached the door, pushing aside the bodies of the two soldiers to pick up their particle guns.

"Click, click!" The particle guns made empty sounds, indicating these modern weapons were no longer functioning according to the laws of this world.

Undeterred, Quentin, although still unclear about what had happened, had "seen" these guns emit abnormal sparks during the transmission; his actions now merely confirmed his suspicion.

Pushing aside the bodies blocking the entrance, Quentin forced the twisted prison door open with the black dagger.

Stepping out, he saw the extensive layout of the prison for the first time.

The cell block was vast, shaped like an elliptical multilevel structure. The central area was an open courtyard surrounded by three tiers of cells, each layer home to over forty cells. His cell was on the topmost level. The corridor in front of the cells was enclosed by a railing, about three meters wide.

"Ah!" A scream pierced the air beside Quentin.

Turning his head, his clear eyes curiously observed a human figure standing in the walkway to his right. This person was also a surviving inmate, dressed in prison garb but significantly shorter and more delicate than Quentin.

The inmate's figure was slender, his features soft and feminine, as if he were a woman. He had tied up his prison shirt around his chest, exposing his midriff, and wrapped another shirt around his waist, while his tight prison pants resembled a short skirt with leggings.

At the sight of Quentin looking his way, the oddly dressed inmate screamed in terror and fled, only to trip and fall after a few steps. Despite the fall, he seemed too frightened of Quentin to get up, instead scooting backward on the floor.

"There's even a transvestite here!" Lincoln cautiously poked his head out of the cell, offering a helpful reminder from behind Quentin. "It looks like he recognizes you!"

A transvestite? Quentin's eyes lit up with interest. He had heard this term in Nevada's prison; it referred to a fascinating type of creature. Works on social and cognitive psychology had analyses and introductions to them.

Quentin slowly approached the fallen transvestite. His approach only heightened the inmate's panic, nearly causing him to faint. However, Quentin stopped after a few steps, looking past the transvestite down the corridor.

There, in the walkway behind the transvestite, stood a burly inmate emerging from a cell. This prisoner was bare-chested, with a stern face and short beard, a noticeable dent in his right brow adding a sinister air to his otherwise robust features. His muscular upper body formed a perfect inverted triangle, adorned with a tattoo of a kneeling black-winged angel on his back.

"Disciple Hanso!" Lincoln gasped softly, moving closer to Quentin for reassurance. Without waiting for Quentin to speak, he quietly introduced the figure.

Hanso, born in Africa to white parents who were medical volunteers for the Red Cross, was taken by a mercenary army after their death in an explosion. From the age of eight, he was trained as a child soldier.

After ten years as a child mercenary, war had honed him into a merciless killing machine. When the mercenary group fell, Hanso returned to North America, where his wartime skills quickly made him a professional assassin. Known to call himself a disciple of Satan, it took the sacrifice of over twenty special forces operatives to apprehend him.

Another murderer? Quentin's gaze shifted, then he stepped forward, grabbing the railing and looking down over the two lower tiers of cells and the central courtyard.

Below, he could make out the shadows of over a dozen inmates. Quentin's eyes brightened, and he wore a shy smile that a young man might have in unfamiliar social settings.