Running a villain organization, Malachai reflected privately, would be significantly easier if people behaved rationally.
Unfortunately, they were people.
"This is the third complaint this week involving weaponized bees," Malachai said calmly.
Across the conference table, two henchmen immediately pointed at each other.
"He started it."
"They were tactical bees!"
"There is no such thing as tactical bees indoors," Malachai replied flatly.
Hex, hanging upside down from the ceiling nearby, raised a hand enthusiastically.
"Counterpoint: emotionally they were very tactical."
Malachai ignored him with the practiced endurance of a man who had survived apocalyptic events.
The conference room remained silent except for distant rain against reinforced glass windows and the quiet hum of holographic displays showing operational reports.
Payroll projections.
Reconstruction investments.
Black market fluctuations.
Disciplinary complaints.
One report was simply titled:
> WHO AUTHORIZED THE FLAMETHROWER PARADE
Nobody admitted responsibility.
Cowards.
Malachai folded his hands calmly.
"Effective immediately," he announced, "weaponized insects are prohibited inside all shared facilities."
One henchman looked devastated.
"But sir—"
"No."
"What about emotionally supportive locusts?"
"No."
Hex wiped away imaginary tears. "Authoritarianism truly thrives in darkness."
Malachai activated the next report.
"Additionally," he continued, "extended monologues during active combat operations are now limited to ninety seconds."
A heavily armored lieutenant looked personally attacked.
"But intimidation is important."
"Length does not improve quality."
"…That feels targeted."
"It is."
Several henchmen quietly took notes.
One actually raised a hand.
"Clarification request. Does dramatic posing count toward monologue duration?"
Malachai stared at him for several long seconds.
"…Depends on the pose."
The lieutenant immediately began writing that down too.
---
Elsewhere within headquarters, Elara sat beside Hex in front of an enormous monitor displaying rapidly scrolling internet discussions.
This, apparently, had been a mistake.
"I still don't understand why humans communicate like this," Elara admitted quietly.
Hex pointed excitedly at the screen.
"Oh this part's easy. Most online interactions are driven by fear, boredom, or unresolved emotional damage."
"That explains disturbingly much."
The monitor refreshed again.
New discussions flooded the screen instantly.
> VOID PRINCESS SAVES CIVILIANS??
> She could fix me.
> I think being threatened politely is somehow worse.
> Are we sure she's actually a villain?
> STEP ON ME RESPECTFULLY VOID LADY
Elara stared blankly.
"…What does that last one mean?"
Hex looked at the screen.
Paused.
"…You know, sometimes I think humanity invents new forms of psychological warfare daily."
Elara continued scrolling slowly.
Confusion settled visibly across her expression.
"They seem uncertain."
"Yes," Hex agreed happily. "Congratulations. You disrupted narrative expectations."
"That sounds inefficient."
"It's actually catastrophic for public discourse."
Another post appeared:
> The Void Princess has lower collateral damage rates than some heroes.
Elara frowned slightly at that.
"…Why are they comparing morality statistically?"
Hex gasped dramatically.
"Oh no. She's beginning to understand politics."
---
Meanwhile, several floors above them, Captain Vale stood inside a reconstruction district watching civilians unload supplies from trucks marked with one of Malachai's many suspiciously legitimate companies.
Nobody looked afraid.
That bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
A nearby worker laughed while directing equipment into place.
Children played near newly repaired housing structures.
And near the center of it all, a massive armored transport drone carefully lowered steel support beams under supervision from tired but functional engineers.
Order.
Again.
Always order.
Vale folded her arms quietly.
A Guild escort standing nearby noticed her expression.
"You still think he's dangerous."
"Yes," Vale answered immediately.
The younger hero hesitated.
"…But?"
Vale watched workers continue rebuilding.
"…But dangerous people usually want the world dependent on fear."
"And he doesn't?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"He wants it stable."
The distinction unsettled her deeply.
---
Back inside headquarters, Malachai finally dismissed the meeting after resolving:
two disciplinary incidents,
one black-market shipping dispute,
three property damage claims,
and a formal complaint involving "psychologically aggressive interior decorating."
He was tired.
He would never admit this aloud.
As the room emptied, Hex floated casually beside him.
"You know," Hex said cheerfully, "for a terrifying dark lord, you spend an impressive amount of time functioning as middle management."
"Civilization requires infrastructure."
"That sounded aggressively responsible."
Before Malachai could answer, one of the central displays flickered.
Briefly.
Almost imperceptibly.
His attention shifted instantly.
A hidden system log surfaced automatically across the screen.
Unauthorized access detected.
Old archive sectors.
Restricted files.
Not financial records.
Not operational reports.
Historical containment archives.
The oldest category available.
Hex slowly stopped smiling.
"…Oh."
Malachai stepped closer.
Access timestamps unfolded silently.
Careful.
Precise.
Whoever entered the archives knew exactly what they were searching for.
One file remained highlighted.
> UIALON INCIDENT — FRAGMENTED RECORDS
The room grew very quiet.
Elara entered moments later, immediately noticing the atmosphere change.
"What happened?" she asked.
Malachai remained silent briefly.
Rain continued tapping softly against the windows overlooking the city.
Then, finally:
"Someone," he said quietly, "is looking for ghosts that should no longer exist."
And for the first time since the crusade ended—
the feeling of being watched no longer felt theoretical.