The neutralizing alkali solution hissed as it surged through the stainless-steel pipes, converting the remaining thousands of gallons of raw Chrono-Rot into a harmless, chalky sludge. Thick clouds of harmless white steam billowed out of the slaughterhouse roof vents, dissipating harmlessly into the cold, rainy night sky above Pier 4.Inside the cavernous sub-basement, the silence was deafening.The heavy iron pumps had ground to a complete halt. High Alchemist Malakor’s empty black robes lay limp on the metal catwalk, surrounded by tiny flecks of grey dust.Officer Lyra Vance stood motionless near the main valve, her right hand still gripping the pommel of her rapier. Her storm-gray eyes flicked from the empty robes on the floor up to the blinding, golden counter hovering above Caelen Voss’s forehead:[ 230 Years : 04 Months : 24 Days : 11 Hours ]Two hundred and thirty years.In the Upper District, a life-span balance like that was reserved for hereditary Archdukes, High Chancellors,