The flat, hollow buzz of the disconnected dial tone hummed in the dark office, vibrating like a death knell against Commander James Maddox's ear.
Slowly, methodically, Maddox lowered his black communicator. His jaw clenched so violently that the muscles along his jawline bulged against his pale skin.
All hell had broken loose.
Watchtower Eight—the subterranean vault hidden miles beneath the bedrock of the Tarita coastline—was one of the humanity's most classified, deeply guarded black site. Inside that facility rested three fully grown, preserved A-Rank Calamity Lords and six genetically engineered embryonic horrors. Every single containment unit, every neural clamp, and every glass vat had been reinforced with intricate runic seals woven directly from Maddox's own refined white mana. Those beasts were biologically paralyzed, their cores completely isolated from the atmosphere.
There was zero possibility that they had broken out on their own.
