One was Crucabena, the Knave.
Though wildly ambitious, she was more wary and fearful of Dottore, whose methods were unfathomable and who occasionally expressed a desire to dissect her.
The other was Sandrone, the Marionette, who held an extreme interest in Dottore’s laboratory and research projects.
The Tsaritsa gave a slight nod, fully aware of the delicate dynamics among her Harbingers.
“Regarding Sandrone, you will handle it with your own discretion.” She left several strands of pure Cryo elemental energy to stabilize Dottore’s physical condition, then quietly departed.
When Dottore regained consciousness, the first thing he felt was the softness of a mattress beneath him, not the cold metal floor of the laboratory.
The thick smell of medicinal tinctures mixed with some calming incense filled his nostrils.
With effort, he opened his eyes.
His blurry vision gradually focused, and what met his gaze was the medical ward’s ceiling, uniquely decorated with ice crystal patterns, characteristic of Zapolyarny Palace.
“Awake?” a low, familiar voice sounded beside the bed.
Dottore turned his head slightly and saw Pierro sitting in a chair nearby, his single eye fixed on him.
His face revealed neither joy nor anger, but the tight press of his lips betrayed his worry.
Dottore tried to push himself up, only for a violent wave of weakness and dizziness to crash over him, forcing a muffled groan from his lips.
“Don’t move.” Pierro immediately rose and pressed down on his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“You’ve been unconscious for over ten days.
The depletion of your mental strength is extremely severe.
Waking up at all is a miracle.” Over ten days?
Dottore’s heart sank.
He remembered that he had not rested properly for a long time in his rush to make progress.
He had just been preparing to send off the experimental samples early when exhaustion had overwhelmed him and he collapsed.
So it had been that long.
He wondered if they had discovered the secret laboratory beneath the surface lab.
He instinctively tried to raise a hand to his forehead but caught sight of a lock of hair falling over his shoulder.
It was no longer the blue-black in his memory but a stark, piercing silver-white like the snowy plains.
His movement froze.
What made Dottore’s heart tighten even further was the figure standing quietly by the window, gazing into the distance.
She wore a magnificent ice-blue gown, an invisible majesty and extreme cold radiating from her.
Her face was exquisitely beautiful, yet as unchanging as ancient glacial ice.
It was none other than the absolute ruler of Snezhnaya, the Tsaritsa, Barnabas.
Even Her Majesty had come in person?
The Tsaritsa turned around, her cool voice chiming like ice striking crystal.
“Dottore, your spirit of research is commendable, but excessive self-depletion is by no means the act of a wise man.
Snezhnaya needs living Harbingers who can strive for the ideal, not a cold corpse filled with regret.” Her gaze, tangible as a physical force, swept over Dottore’s pale face, and his hair turned fully silver, carrying scrutiny and a trace of concern so faint it was almost impossible to detect.
“Pierro has already reported the circumstances of your ‘experimental accident’ to me.
Rest well.
Until your body has completely recovered, all experimental activities are suspended.
This is an order.” Dottore lowered his eyelids, concealing the emotions churning in his eyes.
He understood that this was not merely concern; it was a restriction.
The Tsaritsa and Pierro had clearly sensed something amiss.
They simply could not yet determine exactly what he was researching.
It seemed they had not discovered the hidden laboratory after all.
“…Understood, Your Majesty.
I shall obey your decree.” His voice was hoarse from weakness.
The Tsaritsa inclined her head slightly.
She said nothing further and turned to leave the medical ward, leaving behind a lingering chill.
Pierro looked at Dottore and sighed.
“When I heard the alarm of Xiaomu’s final safety protocol and rushed to the laboratory, you were lying motionless on the floor, your breath so faint it was almost imperceptible.
Tell me, what kind of experiment were you conducting that required such a price?” His tone carried suppressed reproach and lingering fear.
Dottore closed his eyes, avoiding his gaze.
“…A miscalculation in energy control.
I underestimated the intensity of the backlash.” He could not speak the truth.
It was far too shocking, and it might alert the enemy and invite unnecessary obstacles, especially from those forces lurking in the dark.
“A miscalculation?” Pierro clearly did not believe him, but he understood Dottore’s character and knew he could not force out more.
“Whatever it was, it ends now,” he said heavily.
“Until you recover, your laboratory is temporarily sealed.
I will arrange for people to guard it around the clock to ensure you can ‘rest’ at ease.” Surveillance, was it?
Dottore sneered inwardly.
Just as he had expected.
Over the following days, Dottore drifted between deep sleep and brief moments of lucidity.
Every time he woke, he would see Pierro or a trusted guard stationed at his bedside.
His body remained weak; at times, even lifting a hand felt like an arduous effort.
Yet he could feel the power of [Heart of Life] quietly at work, like a slender trickle, slowly but steadily nourishing his parched and slightly fissured core essence.
Though the recovery speed could not compare to the rate of depletion, it at least stabilized his condition.
At the roots of that harsh silver-white hair, the faintest hint of pale blue-black seemed to emerge.
“How are you feeling?” Pierro held a cup of warm water to his lips.
Dottore drank from his hand, his voice hoarse.
“I won’t die.” He attempted to conjure his usual sardonic smile, but his weakness made it appear strained.
“To have the Director himself as my caretaker…
I am truly overwhelmed by the honor.
By the way, that mechanical shut-in hasn’t found a chance to sneak in and ‘tour’ my laboratory yet, has she?” Pierro looked at him, no trace of humor in his single eye.
“She tried.
Capitano ‘escorted’ her back.
Until you are fully recovered, this is your ‘new laboratory.’ You need not concern yourself with any affairs outside.” Dottore gave a knowing scoff.
“Fine.
That self-important mechanical shut-in…
she will never understand that the true mysteries lie in life and the laws themselves, not in those cold gears and springs.” He lowered his eyelids and did not continue the topic, but the urgency in his heart only grew.
For the next few days, Dottore behaved with exceptional compliance.
He took his medicine on time, accepted treatment, and displayed a gradually improving complexion before the medical officers.
Occasionally, he would chat with the Debt Collectors assigned to guard him about innocuous topics or request some basic theoretical books from Pierro to “pass the time,” appearing entirely content and cooperative.
Yet beneath his calm exterior, his anxiety intensified with each passing day.
Time was running out.
He could clearly feel that every breath might be bringing him closer to that predetermined end.
The Tsaritsa’s edict and Pierro’s surveillance could not stop him.
He had to leave.
He had to continue searching for materials and ways to break the deadlock.
Two more days passed.
At Dottore’s insistent request, the number of guards watching him was reduced to two, who took shifts outside the quiet chamber door.
After all, in most people’s eyes, what threat could a man so drained of his essence that his hair had turned completely white possibly pose?
Furthermore, Crucabena, the Knave, upon learning of Dottore’s coma, had secretly ordered her subordinates to stay strictly away from that area, as if some disaster she deeply feared lurked there.
This inadvertently reduced external pressure and allowed Pierro to focus his main defensive efforts on Sandrone.
Late at night, the two guards on duty were on high alert, their ears tuned to every sound from within the room, primarily guarding against any “uninvited guest” that might slip in through the ventilation ducts or mechanical gaps.
Inside, Dottore lay on the sickbed with his eyes closed, breathing steadily and appearing deep in slumber, but his mental focus was at its peak.
Deep within his consciousness, power was gathering.
He quietly activated [Heart of the Black Hole], not for destruction, but with extreme micro-scale control involving spatial manipulation.
In his palm, he created a nearly invisible “black mist” that distorted the light around it.
The black mist was not a physical entity; it was more like a miniature spatial singularity (a spatial shielding layer), temporarily disturbing the surrounding spatial structure.