"I need a rope. A sturdy one."

  John turned to the butler, who was currently collapsed on the ground, and barked the order. His tone left no room for negotiation.

  The butler trembled and looked at Mr. Van Horn. The wealthy tycoon, whose family scandal had just been stripped naked for all to see, face turned ashen. He didn't object. He just wanted this nightmare to end.

  Moments later, a coil of military-grade nylon rope—usually reserved for securing garden sculptures—was brought over.

  John secured one end around his waist and the other to a massive, alloy-cast landscape tree. He gave it a few hard tugs to ensure it would hold, then walked to the edge of the manhole.

  "I shall await your return up here." Holmes stood three meters back from the opening, pressing a silk handkerchief to his nose. It was clear he had zero interest in manual labor or filth. "Do remember, John: whatever you see down there, try not to vomit. It wastes your precious oxygen."

  John took a deep breath, popped the "Clarity Pill" (a gift from Singularity rumored to neutralize a hundred poisons) into his mouth, gripped the rope, and slid down into the gaping black maw.

  The world beneath the well was hell in another dimension.

  As he descended, the sunlight was cut off completely. In its place was an atmosphere thick and sticky as glue. The air was saturated with high concentrations of ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, and the sickeningly sweet, chemical stench of industrial waste.

  John switched on his tablet’s flashlight.

  A beam of pale, harsh light pierced the darkness, illuminating the "sewer" of the Upper Sector.

  It was nothing like the grime-caked, rat-infested pipes he had imagined. This place was strangely spacious, even precise. The walls were lined with high-strength, corrosion-resistant alloy, smooth as mirrors. Every few meters, he passed sealed valves bearing serial numbers and sensors blinking with an ominous red light.

  Flowing through the gaps in these pipes wasn't sewage. It was a purple-black liquid that glowed with an eerie fluorescence, moving sluggishly in the dark. Occasionally, a bubble would rise to the surface and burst, releasing a wisp of green vapor.

  [System Alert: Scanning Environment...]

  [Warning: High concentration of Magical Potion Waste detected.]

  [Composition Analysis: Succubus Toxin, Corpse Oil Extract, Failed High-Tier Alchemy byproduct.]

  [Source: Van Horn Pharmaceutical Factory - Direct Discharge Line.]

  John’s heart sank.

  He had learned in Academy textbooks that magical waste possessed extreme corrosiveness and biological mutagenic properties. It required strict neutralization before disposal. The cost was astronomical, usually calculated by the milliliter.

  But here, beneath the Van Horn estate, these lethal toxins were flowing like tap water, recklessly dumped directly into the city’s public grid.

  Where did it go?

  To the recycled water systems of the Mid-Sector? Or was it dumped straight into the underground rivers of the Lower Sector?

  "Damn rich people," John gritted his teeth. The anger in his chest burned hotter than the toxic air around him. They lived in the clouds, breathing the purest air, while funneling poison down the throats of the poor.

  "Meow..."

  A sound, faint enough to be a hallucination, cut through John’s rage.

  It was weak, trembling—a distress signal from the depths of hell.

  John immediately followed the sound, stepping carefully along the half-meter-wide maintenance walkway that lined the pipes, heading deeper into the dark.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Fifty meters in, at a dead end where the waste fluids pooled, he saw it.

  It was a sealed metal box, about half the height of a man.

  The casing was matte black metal, etched with complex alchemical runes. Stamped on the front was a logo John knew all too well—the skull emblem of the Necromancy Guild’s Bio-Weapons Division. Beside it, a warning in red:

  [EXTREME DANGER: BIOLOGICAL SAMPLE X-99]

  The Cyber-Ragdoll cat—the one worth fifty thousand credits—wasn't outside the box.

  It was locked inside.

  There was no window, only an external high-def monitor displaying a live feed of the interior. The Ragdoll, once possessed of snowy fur and jewel-like eyes, was now curled in a corner.

  Its fur had mostly fallen out, revealing ulcerated pink skin underneath. Its exquisite mechanical eyes had corroded into two hollow black pits, leaking dark oil. It was trembling violently, every breath sounding like a broken bellows.

  Surrounding it was a pale green mist.

  Nerve gas.

  Beep. Beep.

  The electronic panel on the box flashed a heart-stopping red.

  [Subject ID: Luna-07]

  [Current Status: Biochemical Tolerance Test in Progress.]

  [Gas Concentration: 85%]

  [Estimated Time to Cessation of Vital Functions: 58 seconds.]

  [Container Status: Quantum Lock engaged.]

  John froze.

  This wasn't simple abuse.

  The Van Horn boy hadn't just kicked the cat down here out of jealousy.

  This was an experiment.

  That crippled boy—the one Holmes had deduced acted out of "envy"—didn't just want to destroy the cat. He was using it as a lab rat in his secret base, testing some kind of biochemical agent. Maybe to enhance his own prosthetics? Maybe to poison the world?

  And this cat was his first victim.

  "Lunatic. The whole family is insane."

  John’s scalp tingled. He stared at the dying kitten on the screen. Even if it was partially electronic, the pain was real. The fear of death was real.

  He had to get it out.

  He reached out, grabbing the handle of the box.

  ZAP—!

  A blue arc of electricity snapped onto his fingers. John recoiled, his fingertips scorched black.

  [Warning: Unauthorized Access. Fingerprint Invalid.]

  [External intrusion detected. Countermeasure initiated: Gas concentration will reach lethal levels in 60 seconds.]

  [Forced entry will trigger the internal self-destruct mechanism, releasing high-concentration nerve gas. Estimated casualty radius: 100 meters.]

  John’s hand hung in mid-air.

  It was a dead end.

  Open the box? He needed a password or fingerprint. He had neither.

  Force it open? The gas explodes. The cat dies. He dies.

  Do nothing? The cat dies in a minute.

  "Holmes!" John screamed into his earpiece, his voice trembling with desperation. "I found a box! It's Quantum Locked and filled with poison gas! If I force it, it blows! What do I do?"

  The sound of Holmes tapping his pipe came through the earpiece, as indifferent as ever.

  "Quantum Lock?" Holmes’ voice was calm, but tinged with resignation. "That is outside my area of expertise, John. I am a detective, not a physicist. I can tell you who the killer is, but I cannot untangle a physical riddle involving quantum states."

  "Aren't you supposed to be a genius?!" John panicked, watching the cat’s breathing slow on the screen. The red countdown numbers jumped like a death warrant.

  "Genius has its specializations," Holmes replied dryly. "For this Schr?dinger-esque dilemma—dead and alive, open and closed—you need someone more... academic. I suggest you check that magical app of yours. See if there's a mad scientist available."

  John gritted his teeth, staring at the countdown.

  50... 49...

  Physical means: Failed.

  Logical deduction: Useless.

  He looked down at his tablet.

  In the top right corner, his remaining assets were displayed: Karma Points: 100.

  It was the points he earned from exorcising the apprentice ghost at the bakery. It was the money he saved to buy supplements for his mother. If he used the Summon feature now, the 100 points would hit zero. He might even go into overdraft, racking up new debt.

  For a cat?

  A rich man's toy?

  Was it worth it?

  If he turned around and left now, no one would blame him. He found the cat. Half the mission was done. He could go up, tell the tycoon the cat was dead, and take half the bounty.

  That would be enough to buy medicine for his mom.

  John’s foot shifted. He wanted to step back.

  But just then, the cat on the screen seemed to sense something. It struggled to lift its head. Its blind, hollow eyes turned toward the camera lens, and it let out a soft sound.

  "Meow..."

  The sound was faint, but it pricked the layer of cocoon around John's heart called "Rationality."

  His mother’s face flashed in his mind.

  He remembered when he was a kid, so poor they couldn't afford rice. His mother sat in her wheelchair, sweating from pain, yet she still broke their only piece of bread in half to feed a stray dog on the street.

  "John, a life is a life. We may be poor, but our hearts shouldn't be poor."

  Those words were a beam of light, piercing into this dark, filthy, poison-filled sewer.

  John looked at the dying kitten. Yes, it was a rich man's pet. Yes, its owner was a psychopath. But right now, it was just a life in pain.

  It was no different from the overworked apprentice who died at the bakery. No different from his mother lying in that sickbed. They were all victims of this cold, unfeeling world.

  If he turned his back now, could he spend that money and live with himself?

  "Dammit..."

  John cursed, his eyes burning.

  "Can't be poor in spirit. That's the house rule."

  He stopped hesitating. His finger stabbed fiercely at the [Nether-Link] app.

  Since the cat in this box was in a superposition of dead and alive... Since this was a physics problem...

  Then he had to call the Grandmaster of messing with cats.

  Even if it bankrupted him.

  "SUMMON!"

  He typed the name into the search bar:

  [Erwin Schr?dinger].

  [Message from Singularity]

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