Asahara Shoko scrambled to his feet, overwhelmed with urgency. He was no longer interested in taking risks or asserting authority—those things could wait until he survived.
As long as he lived, as long as he survived this hour, he could still summon storms and sweep away those deceitful villains later...
Surrounded by the sect’s core members, he fled frantically towards the top floor.
Gunshots, screams, and cries echoed endlessly behind him, as if pursued by fiends. Asahara Shoko dared not glance back, only feeling death’s presence creeping closer with each step he took, each headlong rush bringing the scythe nearer...
Soon, they’ll be there!
They raced up the corridor’s stairs towards the upper floor, passing through the flat-level hall where several core members became separated, attempting to hide inside a flat-level room, only to be gunned down by a barrage of bullets.
Asahara Shoko was panting heavily, sweat soaking his silk robe. The last time he exercised this intensely was with three female believers.
He raised his head; the end of the hallway led to an open-air garden, the door tightly shut. He ran while searching for the key—the rooftop was his private garden, and only he could freely access it.
"Quick, quick... Where’s the key?!"
He shouted at the secretary, "Where’s my key!!"
The secretary trembled, nervously pulling a keychain from his pocket, his hands shaking as he found the specific key. Asahara Shoko snatched it without looking, dragging his near-limit body to the gold-plated door, fumbling to insert the key into the lock.
Just insert it already!!
Had I known, I would’ve installed an automatic sensor door...
Damn it, wasn’t this door always open? Who the hell closed it...
Asahara Shoko jabbed the key towards the lock, trying for ages, but it wouldn’t go in. He bent down, aligning his eye with the lock only to discover it was blocked by warm gel.
Worse still, the door crevices were also filled with hot melt glue.
Furious, Asahara Shoko kicked the door hard.
The golden arch trembled, a rattling sound of bottles and cans echoed from above. He instinctively stepped back and looked up, seeing metal tanks stacked atop and soldered together, embedded within the wall, resembling oxygen tanks at first glance.
But Asahara Shoko saw the label on the tanks.
A green skull coupled with a brief English note: "Sarin."
It was the Sarin Poison Gas he ordered his subordinates to develop for a planned indiscriminate mass slaughter to wipe out the backward old humanity. They postponed the massacre after discovering Ye Tea.
How did this end up here?
Asahara Shoko was astonished, his gaze following the transparent pipes connected to the metal tanks downwards, finally landing on the right wall, where a valve was embedded, accompanied by a simple electronic display currently counting down.
Asahara Shoko was drenched in sweat. Having performed human experiments, he knew too well the consequences of inhaling Sarin Poison Gas—first comes difficulty breathing, followed by convulsions, incontinence, or vomiting, leading into coma from bodily overload, and ultimately death.
He reached out, instinctively trying to shut the valve, physically isolating the poison gas.
However, the valve handle was fake; it broke off at Asahara Shoko’s twist—a mere decoration, terrifying him into holding his breath. Upon closer inspection, he found it was an electric switch, the designer having concealed red and blue wires on the outside, thoughtfully leaving a knife inserted in the valve handle.
The implication was clear.
Cut the red wire or cut the blue wire.
It finally dawned on Asahara Shoko... why the elevator stopped working, why the doors shut tight, why the curtains at the exhibition area automatically closed—all aiming to prevent poison gas leakage, turning the World’s Navel into a ghostly hell.
He pulled the knife from the valve handle and didn’t cut the red or the blue wire. Instead, he used the knife’s tip to pick at the hot melt glue inside the lock.
"A bunch of stupid bastards..."
"Once I get out of here..."
"I swear I’ll kill them all..."
Asahara Shoko was drenched with sweat, squatting by the door, picking for ages, occasionally extracting milky translucent gels.
Just relying on a knife is too slow—the lock’s tiny opening only allowed its tip inside, unable to jab any further, merely scraping back and forth.
"How about heating it with a lighter?"
A man’s voice sounded behind him, promptly passing a lighter to Asahara Shoko’s face.
Without lifting his head, Asahara Shoko grabbed it, pressed down the lighter, and directed the flame at the lock, achieving little. The lock’s surface warmed up, but the gel inside remained unchanged.
"Don’t just heat the lock!" the man behind reminded: "Heat the knife instead, let it melt inside!"
Asahara Shoko’s eyes brightened, eagerly using the lighter to heat the knife. He thought to himself, not all his subordinates were dimwits; some were smart. This lad was sharp, might as well promote him once out...
Suddenly, he realized, the gunfire seemed to have stopped.
Since when had it become eerily silent behind him, with no movement at all.
Asahara Shoko shivered, the flame in his hand wavering, unable to steady the knife.
"What’s wrong?" the man behind said: "Aim at the knife tip, how could heating the knife handle work?"
Asahara Shoko smelled a strong odor of blood. His hand slackened, extinguishing the flame, as the shadow behind him loomed closer.