A few seconds later, two sets of holographic data floated above the workbench.
On the left were Gray Mule-1's complex toxin molecular formula and metabolic curve.
On the right was a Department of Munitions statistical table, filled with casualty figures, supply consumption rates, and unit designations from various war zones.
Rovi walked up to the projection.
His gaze turned cold and profound.
The fear, anxiety, and helplessness belonging to an ordinary man all vanished at that moment.
They were replaced by an almost cold-blooded rationality.
At that moment, he was no longer a prisoner facing death.
He entered the auditor's state.
In his eyes, everything in this world—
Poisons, soldiers, war, life, death—none of it retained any emotional color.
They had all become data.
Rovi picked up a pen and opened to a fresh page in his notebook.
The pen tip raced across the paper, urgent and forceful.
"Alpha, I need you to confirm one core parameter again."
Without looking up, Rovi asked, "Are you certain this genetic toxin's incubation period is exactly twelve hours?"
"Could it trigger early due to differences in individual constitution? For example, in a strong Ogre ape or a frail ratman?"
Although the Priest was on the verge of collapse, he remained professional when it came to technical matters.
He recalibrated the data model.
He carefully scanned the faintly flickering bioelectric signals in the holographic projection.
Several minutes later, the Priest answered, "Certain. This is a lock at the genetic level, set according to the mitochondrial metabolic rate of a standard human."
"Twelve hours, with a margin of error of no more than ten minutes."
"Good."
Rovi nodded.
He wrote down a number in his notebook: 12 hours.
That was the point at which the risk would erupt.
Next, he rapidly flipped through an old