Location: Off-Grid Neighborhood — Safe House — Elijah's Room — Night
The story mode resumed.
The screen glowed with a montage of centuries—time-lapsed, dreamlike. Cities grew, towers rose, banners changed. Armor evolved from leather to steel to something that gleamed like liquid crystal. The seven territories spread across the map, their borders shifting, their people multiplying.
"Thousands of years passed," the narrator's voice continued. "The memory of the daemon war faded into legend. But the dungeons remained."
The screen showed a portal—a swirling vortex of blue and gold, its edges crackling with energy. Armored figures stood before it, their weapons raised, their faces hidden behind helms.
"And the people sent their bravest into the depths."
A scene unfolded: Othomos. A warrior in silver plate raised her hand. Light erupted from her palm—not a weapon, a signal. The portal shimmered, then accepted her.
Inside the dungeon, she moved through corridors of crystal and shadow. Daemons lunged—serpentine, batlike, creatures of fang and claw. She danced between them, her sword tracing arcs of golden light. Each kill rewarded her with a shimmering orb. Her level rose. Her armor glowed brighter.
"They fought. They leveled. They claimed the treasures of the ancients."
The camera panned across other territories: Uxi, where monks in golden robes used earth-shaping techniques to crush daemons. Netherest, where jungle warriors summoned vines to bind their foes. Borderland, where sandstorm-twisters tore through enemy ranks.
Elijah watched.
His fingers rested on the keyboard. His eyes tracked the particles, the light, the way the daemons dissolved into pixelated dust.
"Seriously," he said aloud. "The FPS is amazing. Look at that particle physics. And the lighting—ray-traced, definitely. Whoever designed this engine is a genius."
Wonko's voice pressed against his skull.
"You are marveling at a child's amusement. A game. While the secrets of the luminarch mark—the keys to the celestial barrier—are supposedly hidden within its code. Do you truly believe this rubbish?"
Elijah's fingers drummed on the keyboard.
"I found the Hollow through a coordinate hidden in this game. That gave me the Astraseal. Or at least, it unlocked something—a beacon. It opened a closed star satellite. Now I can draw on the planetary aetherflux conflux of that specific celestial body."
"Mars."
"Mars." He paused. "The game is a map. A treasure hunt designed by someone who wanted to be found. Or someone who wanted to find a particular kind of person."
"Someone naive enough to believe in fairy tales?"
"Someone desperate enough to chase them."
Elijah turned. He looked at Tyla.
She sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, a small file in her hand. She was working on her nails—slow, methodical, her expression the face of someone who had been bored for a while and was no longer trying to hide it.
"You don't understand," Elijah said. "The magnitude of the gaming industry. The technology. The artistry."
Tyla didn't look up.
"I understand you're avoiding real work."
"I'm gathering intelligence."
"On a game."
"On a treasure map disguised as a game."
She filed her thumbnail.
"If I hadn't been brainwashed and turned into a freakish monster by your Halcyon buddies," Elijah said, "I would be a certified gamer right now. Esports. Sponsorships. The whole deal."
Wonko's mental voice sharpened.
"They are not my buddies."
Elijah's brow furrowed.
"I noticed. You said that with... feeling."
"They are not my anything. What they did—what they do—I had no part in that. I was a scientist. A seeker of truth. Not a... a jailer. Not a torturer."
"You didn't answer my question earlier."
"What question?"
"Where did all that respectability take you?"
Wonko was silent.
Inside the orrhion chip world, his holographic form flickered. His cheeks—translucent, blue-tinged—seemed to darken. His jaw tightened.
"Hmph," he said.
"That's what I thought."
"Don't call me Wonks, brat. When you were still wet behind the ears, still clinging to your mother's bosom, I was a field scientist. Respected. Decorated. The kind of person who received awards and gave lectures."
"And then?"
"And then I was betrayed. By people who claimed to be my colleagues. People who used my research for things I never intended."
"Sounds familiar."
Wonko's image flickered again.
"Just play the game," he said.
Elijah turned back to the monitor.
The screen had changed. A loading bar appeared—pulsing, slow, filled with glyphs that looked like circuit-board runes.
"Now we're getting somewhere," he said.
------------
Adonaios location
The name appeared in white lettering against a dark sky, then faded. The camera descended through clouds—not soft, cottony clouds, but the gray, smog-heavy clouds of an industrial city.
Below, a building.
It was old—not ancient, not modern. Somewhere in between. Its facade was limestone, stained by decades of exhaust. Its windows were dark, their glass replaced with panels that might have been armor. A single door, steel-reinforced, stood at the end of a short flight of steps. No sign. No number.
Inside, the room was long.
A table dominated the center—dark wood, polished, scarred by cigarette burns and knife marks. Chairs surrounded it, high-backed, leather, the kind that swallowed whoever sat in them.
The turf factions had gathered.
---
Andreas leaned back in his chair.
His skin was copper-dark, weathered, lined by sun and wind. His hair was black, slicked back, a thin mustache traced his upper lip. He wore a guayabera—white, linen, untucked—over dark trousers and leather boots that had seen hard use. A gold chain hung around his neck, and on his finger, a ring that caught the light.
He crossed his arms.
"Get on with it, buddy," he said. "I don't have all day."
Pauline sat across from him.
Her suit was tailored, navy blue, with a badge clipped to her belt. Her hair was blond, pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes were pale, cold, the eyes of someone who had seen too much and cared too little. Behind her stood two men—identical, sunglasses, earpieces—their postures rigid.
"Seriously," she said. "Are all immigrants from that dumpy place savages? Can't even learn simple etiquette?"
Andreas's jaw tightened.
"Why call the kettle black, amiga, when you—"
"At least I hail from a well-disposed region. Not like some savage who grew up in the wilds, learning to eat cactus and worship donkeys."
"Puta madre—"
"Enough."
Zhang Han's voice was quiet. Controlled.
He sat at the head of the table. His suit was gray, expensive, the fabric so fine that it seemed to absorb the light. His face was smooth, ageless, with dark eyes that missed nothing. A laptop sat before him, open, its screen reflecting his expression.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
Andreas's mouth snapped shut.
Pauline's sneer faded.
Chicky—sitting at the far end of the table—swung her legs.
She was young, twenty at most, with hair dyed pastel pink and a dress that belonged at a club, not a boardroom. Her shoes were platform sneakers. Her nails were painted with tiny stars. She hummed under her breath, her eyes moving from face to face, her smile never quite reaching them.
Zhang Han turned to the laptop.
"The reason we are here," he said, "is the Morrecca situation."
He tapped a key.
An image appeared on the screen behind him—a photograph of the Freakshow, its neon sign dark, its windows boarded.
"Before they were disbanded, their share of the money was stolen. The cameras inside Frederick Morrecca's office were not working that day. Only one person was known to have been in that office: Nico Morrecca."
Another image. Nico's face—drunk, disheveled, the image from the Vidflash livestream.
"Then, days later, his corpse was found at Scrapper's Cove."
"So he was the thief," Andreas said. "End of story."
"Perhaps." Zhang Han's eyes moved to Pauline. "Or perhaps another party was involved."
"What are you saying?" Andreas leaned forward. "That the real perpetrator—the snake—is among us?"
"I have not said that. Yet."
Zhang Han's voice hardened.
"Mr. Andreas, your father's cartel—the Tinkuana—supplies our turfs with the goods we need. That does not mean you can run rampant in my meeting. Your father still answers to the Mysterium clan. And as a member of it, you are deemed to answer to me."
Andreas's face went red.
His jaw worked. His hands curled into fists on the table. But he said nothing.
Pauline made a gesture—a flick of her fingers, a tilt of her head—mocking, theatrical.
"Miss Pauline," Zhang Han said. "Frequent thefts of cargo have been reported by Erickson of Tunaro. How is it that your Border Patrol Agency has not investigated? Your bureau ensures such things should not happen in the waters."
Erickson, silent until now, turned his gaze to Pauline.
His eyes were flat. Unreadable.
"I had an IT contact do some digging," he said. "Your place of residence is an address in Velmarch Heights."
Pauline's expression flickered.
"So?"
"So one of the attackers who hit my shipments—the ones wearing masks—was receiving texts from that same address."
The room went still.
Pauline's face turned ugly.
"That's a lie."
"Is it?"
Zhang Han's eyes moved to Pauline.
The others followed.
Andreas uncrossed his arms. Chicky stopped swinging her legs. Madam Lynne, who had been watching in silence, leaned forward.
"Miss Pauline," Zhang Han said. "Do you have anything to say?"
Pauline's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Her tongue traced her lower lip.
"I... it's a misunderstanding. Someone must have used my address. Spoofed it. Hackers."
"Hackers," Andreas repeated. "Convenient."
"It's the truth!"
Erickson's voice was quiet.
"The texts were traced to your personal phone. Not a burner. Not a spoof. Your personal device."
Pauline's face went pale.
The room was silent.
Zhang Han closed his laptop.
"We will discuss this further," he said. "In private."
He looked at the others.
"Gentlemen. Ladies. You are dismissed."
---