Deep beneath the uninhabited northwest, beneath thousands of miles of desert and wasteland, stood a shelter-like structure converted from an old air-raid shelter. Inside its underground chambers, rows of silver-white pods that clearly did not belong to this world—each resembling a coffin—were arranged in succession.
A mustached man sat on an iron table amid the metal pods. His head and limbs were wrapped in gauze, making him look extremely battered.
The shelter's doors opened, and Potassium Chloride, wheeling herself in, entered alongside Lacan, whose neck was secured in a cervical brace.
"Oh-ho, looks like you're not doing so well either, Teacher Wundt," Potassium Chloride exclaimed as she looked at Wundt. "I thought it was a joke when I heard that 'Order' had beaten our people senseless... You got beaten up pretty badly."
Wundt sighed. "I'm fine. Jung and Bandura have already been put into the healing pods. I can still sit here and keep watch, so I'm doing all right."
Lacan looked around. "Where's Adler? Is he really dead?"
Wundt nodded. "He really is. He should be in the Pure Ruins now... I hope the President can receive him."
"How are you two? Where's Dilaudid?"
Wundt looked at them as he asked.
"Dilaudid went back home. We were tricked by someone called Schreiber. We didn't get the inheritance, and we even got beaten up by the Island Master of the 6th Island," Potassium Chloride sighed. "Worse still... that guy claims to be a successor of 'Freud.'"
Wundt took a moment to react before speaking. "The first-generation President?"
"Yes, the first-generation President. He looks very much like him too."
Lacan said this, then lowered his voice and added, "His bearing and way of doing things are similar as well... It's almost as if the man himself had come back to life."