“Your quarters are this way.”

Sarah walked beside him, her eyes occasionally glancing at his ribs as if checking her work.

Ray had departed, saying he had an important task to attend, but Sarah had speculated that he probably went to grab a drink.

Not that it mattered to Makun, the thing he craved the most now was his room, a personal space, something clean, not as damaged as it had been at Mr. Okoye’s building and not some homeless shelter.

He mentioned it to Sarah who had volunteered to accompany him there.

They walked through the main corridor, passing the hub, then turned into a narrower passage Makun had not noticed before.

The reinforced steel panels gave way to something warmer, wooden accents lining the walls, softer lighting overhead.

Then he felt it, once again, the shift.

Makun was confused, a shift while already being in the veil, he had to dive deeper into this topic.

The air changed while the pressure in his ears flickered, and for a moment his vision blurred. When it cleared, the corridor had transformed.

Gone were the utilitarian walls and harsh lights.

In their place stood a wide hallway lined with doors, evenly spaced like a modern apartment complex. The floor was polished wood, the walls painted a calm grey, and natural light seemed to filter from somewhere above even though they were underground.

But what caught Makun’s attention were the trees.

Small trees lined the corridor at regular intervals, planted in elegant stone pots. Their leaves were a deep green, almost emerald, swaying gently despite the absence of wind.

Makun slowed, frowning.

Something was off.

He breathed in, and his frown deepened. These trees, they were not releasing oxygen. No, they were pumping out something else entirely, something he was quite familiar with by now.

They were pumping Ashe out.

He could feel it entering his lungs, mingling with the Ashe already circulating in his body. It was subtle, a gentle current rather than a flood, but the effect was undeniable. His Ashe felt cleaner, smoother, as if impurities were being filtered out with every breath.

If I breathe this in every day, he realised, the quality and quantity of my Ashe would refine over time.

“The Ashwood trees,” Sarah said, noticing his gaze. “They were cultivated specifically for practitioners. Living near them accelerates Ashe refinement. It’s one of the perks of being stationed here.”

Makun nodded slowly, still processing. The MIO was not just an organisation, it was an ecosystem designed to nurture practitioners.

It’s normal they make it difficult for us to leave this place. He concluded, after remembering his conversation with Yime in Naija City.

He filed the information away and kept walking.

“So how many people work here?” He asked, taking the opportunity to learn more. Yime had briefed him, but she had not mentioned everything. “How many teams are there?”

Sarah tilted her head, thinking. “Roughly a hundred agents and fifty field agents, give or take. We have ten separate teams, each consisting of four to five people.”

She held up a finger. “But not all teams are equal. They’re separated by mission type and tier.”

“Tier?”

“Think of it like grades,” she explained. “Missions are classified from Grade F to Grade A. Grade F missions are the simplest, things an Initiate can handle without much risk. Grade A missions are the most dangerous, reserved for Elite-level practitioners or teams of experienced Adepts.”

Makun listened carefully.

“Teams are assigned based on what they can handle,” Sarah continued. “Team Nine and Team Ten are made up of Initiates, with Apprentice leaders. They handle Grade F and Grade E missions. Then you have teams like ours, Team Seven, we’re Apprentices with an Adept leader. We handle Grade D and Grade C missions.”

“And the higher grades?”

“Grade B goes to the Adept-only teams. Grade A?” She paused. “That’s reserved for Team One. Four third-grade Adepts and the boss herself, Yime. They handle the missions no one else can.”

Makun nodded, the structure clicking into place.

It made sense.

Missions were graded by danger. Teams were graded by capability, a first-grade Initiate would not be sent on a mission that spelled certain death, they would be given tasks within their ability.

As they grew stronger, the missions would scale.

It was logical, efficient, designed to minimise casualties while maximising growth.

The Suppression Bureau knows what they are doing. He paused. So was the mission in Naija City considered Grade A?

The end result proved for it to be a Grade A mission, however how could they have known.

If he were to guess the original report it would have been something like, mysticism related confrontation between three Adept warriors.

Investigate and catch the culprits.

Was it graded A because of three third-grade Adept warriors, or was it because they had access to specific information about Cheryl and Bol?

If it was the latter, then they might have some clue as to why he was being chased around.

“Here we are.”

Sarah stopped in front of a door. The number on it read 7-7.

Room 7-7. Team Seven? Makun wondered. Or just coincidence?

He doubted anything in the MIO was coincidence.

Sarah gestured toward the door. “Your handprint is already registered. Just place your palm on the panel.”

Makun pressed his hand against the small black panel beside the door. A soft beep, and the door clicked open.

He stepped inside and stopped.

The room was larger than he expected.

No, not a room. An apartment.

A small parlour greeted him first, furnished with a simple grey couch, a low table, and a mounted screen on the wall. To the left was a minimal kitchen, a counter, a sink, a compact refrigerator, and a few cabinets. A doorway led to what he assumed was the bedroom, and beside it, a bathroom.

It was modern, clean and functional, perfect for an MIO agent.

It was more than he had ever had.

This is my new place. He thought.

He moved from foster house to foster house, he lived with old friends, crashed out at different places and had gotten his first apartment at Mr. Okoye’s building, afterwards he had moved into a homeless shelter.

Never had he ever gotten anything good. This was the first proper apartment he got.

He did not dislike it.

He walked further in, eyes scanning everything. On the desk in the parlour sat several devices, sleek metallic objects similar to what he had seen in Yime’s container at the pier night market.

Communication devices, he guessed. There were also two laptops, their screens dark, waiting to be activated.

And a phone.

Makun picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

A new phone.

He sighed. His last one had been completely destroyed during the chaos in Naija City. He had not even thought about replacing it until now.

At least they planned ahead.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Sarah said from the doorway. “Yime’s office is on Level 3, room 3-1. Don’t be late.”

She smiled, warm and genuine, then turned and left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Level 3, room 3-1? Where is that? Makun thought, confused.

It did not matter, right now he stood alone in his new apartment.

My apartment.

He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

The first thing he did was shower.

The bathroom was small but clean and very functional, it had white tiles, a glass-enclosed shower, and a mirror above the sink. Everything someone could ask for from a bathroom.

The water was hot, the pressure strong, and for a few minutes Makun just stood there, letting the heat wash away the aches that Sarah’s healing had not fully erased.

When he stepped out, he felt almost human again.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to the bedroom. A single bed, neatly made, sat against the wall. A dresser stood opposite, and beside it, a small closet.

He opened the dresser.

Inside were clothes. Combat boots lined up at the bottom. Black shirts, tactical pants, a jacket similar to the one Yime had given him back in Naija City. Everything was his size, everything was new.

Yime arranged this. She really is diligent.

He pulled on a fresh shirt and pants, the fabric comfortable against his skin.

Then he noticed something on the table beside the bed.

A book.

He walked over and picked it up, recognising the cover immediately.

The Goal of a Mystic.

The same book he had taken from the night market. The same book that had started everything.

How did it get here?

He had left it in his bag back in Naija City. Or had he? The chaos of the eyed hand’s attack, the hospital, the departure, everything had blurred together.

Had Yime retrieved it? Had someone packed it for him without his knowledge?

He did not know, and that bothered him.

I need to clear this with Yime.

He set the book down and glanced at the time on his new phone.

Forty minutes until the meeting.

He had questions. About the book, about his role, about what came next.

Yime would have answers, or at least, he hoped she would.

He grabbed the combat jacket from the dresser, pulled it on, and headed for the door.

Level 3, room 3-1.

Time to get some answers.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep