The stale scent of boiled cabbage and cheap pipe tobacco clung to the air in the cramped hallway of the tenement on Rue Sainte-Catherine. Elias Thorne, sixteen years of age and owner of this building, along with six others scattered across Montreal's working-class districts, wrinkled his nose subtly. He held his leather-bound ledger tighter under one arm, the other hand deep in the pocket of his wool trousers, fingers brushing against a reassuringly thick roll of banknotes. It was Tuesday, rent day, and the depression gripping the world outside these damp walls had made his tenants perpetually short and commensurately resentful.
"Mr. Dubois," Elias said, his voice remarkably even and pitched low for his age, a practiced calm he'd cultivated since his parents' untimely deaths three years prior had thrust him into this role. He stood before a door whose paint was flaking like sunburnt skin. "The rent, if you please."
A shuffling sound from within, then the click of a latch. The door creaked open a sliver, revealing one rheumy eye and a whiff of something far less pleasant than cabbage. "Mr. Thorne. Already? The week's just begun."
"And last week has ended, Mr. Dubois," Elias replied, his gaze unwavering. He wasn't unkind, not truly, but he'd learned early that sentimentality was a currency neither he nor his tenants could afford. His father, a shrewd if occasionally over-leveraged businessman, had drilled into him the realities of capital, property, and the unforgiving nature of ledgers. "The agreement stands. Thirty dollars, due the first Tuesday."
The eye blinked. A grumble. "The mill's cut hours again, young sir. It's… difficult."
Elias maintained his patient, almost unnervingly placid expression. "I understand hardship, Mr. Dubois. Many do, these days. However, the building has its own costs. Coal for the furnace, repairs… I trust you understand my position." He let a sliver of the ice that lived permanently in his core touch his tone. He wasn't a charity, though sometimes he felt like the city's unwilling benefactor.
A sigh, heavy and defeated, gusted through the crack. The door opened a fraction wider, and a gnarled hand thrust out a collection of crumpled bills and coins. Elias took them, his slender fingers surprisingly adept at quickly counting the disparate currency. He noted it was three dollars short.
"We are short, Mr. Dubois."
"Best I can do, Mr. Thorne. On my oath."
Elias's gaze flickered to the worn-out shoes visible by the door, the thinness of the fabric on the trousers Dubois wore. He could press. He should press; it was the sensible, financially sound thing to do. His father would have. But Elias also saw the hollows in the man's cheeks, a quiet desperation he'd seen too often.
"Very well," Elias said, making a swift notation in his ledger with a fountain pen. "The remainder will be added to next week's due. Do try to be prompt, Mr. Dubois. Good day." He didn't wait for a reply, already turning towards the next door, the rhythm of this life – collection, accounting, terse negotiations – so ingrained it felt like breathing.
He was an anomaly, this boy landlord in a city groaning under the weight of economic collapse. Inheriting his parents' considerable, if somewhat precariously managed, property portfolio had been a shock, the responsibility a crushing weight that had rapidly molded him. His guardians, a distant aunt and uncle more interested in the stipend from his estate than his well-being, had quickly signed over managerial duties when he'd demonstrated an uncanny aptitude for it at fourteen. He was intelligent, yes, ravenously so, devouring books on economics, history, and engineering with the same quiet intensity he applied to his ledgers. He was also cunning, having learned to navigate the world of adults, of disgruntled tenants and opportunistic suppliers, with a composure that belied his youth.
By the time he'd finished his rounds in the Sainte-Catherine property, the late afternoon sun was casting long, mournful shadows across the cobblestones. He walked briskly, a solitary figure in a city of millions, his tailored but unostentatious coat a shield against the autumn chill and the occasional suspicious glance. He was wealthy, at least on paper, but lived frugally, reinvesting most of his earnings back into the properties, shoring up foundations, replacing leaky roofs, and occasionally, reluctantly, evicting those who simply could not pay.
Back in his own modest apartment – a small suite above a quiet bookstore he also owned in the Old Port, its rooms filled with more books than furniture – Elias set about his evening routine. A simple meal of bread, cheese, and a cold sausage, eaten while reviewing the day's accounts. The numbers swam before him, profits and losses, repairs projected, vacancies noted. He felt the familiar throb of a headache beginning behind his temples, a common companion these days. He pushed it aside, his mind already turning to the faulty boiler in the De Lorimier building.
He was drafting a letter to a supplier, arguing politely but firmly over the quoted price for a new pressure valve, when the headache intensified with sudden, vicious force. It wasn't the usual dull ache; this was a sharp, splitting pain that made him gasp, his pen skittering across the page, leaving an inky scar.
Elias gripped his head, his vision blurring. The familiar objects in his dimly lit room – the overflowing bookshelves, the roll-top desk, the threadbare armchair – seemed to waver, to stretch and distort as if seen through water. A wave of dizziness washed over him, so profound he nearly pitched forward out of his chair.
Panic, cold and unfamiliar, tightened his chest. A stroke? At sixteen?
Then, as suddenly as it began, the worst of the pain subsided, leaving behind a dull thrum and a strange, echoing silence in his mind. He blinked, his vision slowly clearing. And that's when he saw it.
Suspended in the air before him, about three feet from his face, was a translucent, rectangular pane of light. It glowed with a soft, internal luminescence, predominantly a deep blue, with script and symbols he didn't initially recognize shimmering upon its surface.
It was roughly the size of a broadsheet newspaper page.
[System Initializing… Standby.]
The words were written in stark white, modern-looking lettering, completely alien to the 1930s aesthetic that surrounded him. Elias stared, his breath caught in his throat. He wasn't dreaming. He pinched the back of his hand, hard. Pain, sharp and real. He looked away, then back. The glowing pane remained, utterly impervious to his disbelief.
His first instinct, the one hammered into him by years of dealing with the unexpected, was caution. He slowly rose from his chair, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He circled the floating rectangle, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was entirely immaterial; his hand passed right through it when he tentatively reached out. Yet, it was undeniably there.
[System Boot Sequence Complete. Welcome, Host Unit 001: Elias Thorne.]
Host Unit? His name. It knew his name.
A wave of questions, sharp and urgent, flooded his mind, momentarily overriding the fear. What was this? Who sent it? Was it some kind_of newfangled projection? A prank? But the technology… it was beyond anything he'd ever conceived.
[You have been selected as the primary vector for the Citadel Empowerment System.]
[Objective: Amass Power. Expand Influence. Reshape Destiny.]
Citadel Empowerment System? Elias mouthed the words, a faint tremor in his hands. Reshape destiny? The sheer audacity of the statement was breathtaking.
[Core Function Unlocked: Troop Bestowal.]
[You may grant powers analogous to specialized combat units to sentient beings.]
A list appeared below the text, replacing the welcome message. It was headed: Available Units (Tier 1).
Barbarian: Confers enhanced strength, resilience, and basic combat savagery. Moderate physical transformation likely (increased muscle mass, heightened aggression). Cost: 10 Energy Points.Archer: Confers superhuman accuracy, enhanced eyesight, and instinctive projectile mastery. Minimal physical transformation. Cost: 10 Energy Points.Goblin: Confers enhanced speed, agility, and an unnatural aptitude for acquiring material wealth (theft, resource detection). Slight, grotesque physical transformation possible. Cost: 5 Energy Points.
Elias stared, his sharp mind racing, connecting dots that weren't even visible. Barbarian? Archer? Goblin? These sounded like… like something out of the fantastical tales he sometimes allowed himself to read when the ledgers grew too oppressive.
[Resource Overview:]
[Host Power: 1.0 (Baseline Human Average)]
[System Energy: 100/100 (Replenishes over time)]
[Loyalty Meter: N/A (No empowered units yet)]
He slowly sat back down, his gaze fixed on the impossible interface. His headache was a distant memory, replaced by a dizzying cocktail of apprehension and a burgeoning, terrifying excitement.
"Powers…" he whispered, the sound swallowed by the quiet of his room. "Grant powers…"
He focused on the entry for 'Barbarian'. As he did, a more detailed sub-screen seemed to overlay the main one, showing a stylized, muscular silhouette and further details.
[Barbarian Unit – Level 1]
[Strength Quotient: +200% (relative to recipient's baseline)]
[Durability Quotient: +150% (relative to recipient's baseline)]
[Stamina Quotient: +180% (relative to recipient's baseline)]
[Combat Instincts: Basic, Unrefined. Favors overwhelming force.]
[Mental State: Prone to heightened aggression, reduced higher reasoning under stress.]
[Empowerment Feedback Protocol: Activated.]
Then, a new section lit up on the main screen, as if responding to his unasked questions.
[Power Acquisition Protocols:]
Standard Feedback: Upon successful empowerment, Host Unit gains 10% of the empowered unit's core attributes (Strength, Speed, Intellect, etc., depending on granted power) permanently.Loyalty Symbiosis: If recipient demonstrates 100% verified loyalty to Host Unit prior to empowerment, Host Unit gains 100% of the empowered unit's core attributes. Loyalty is a dynamic metric, verifiable by the System. Prime Conduit Resonance (Latent – Requires Specific Subject Type): If recipient is a designated 'Prime Conduit' (Marvel Character), Host Unit gains 100% of empowered unit's core attributes, regardless of prior loyalty. Further, Host Unit will gain a mirrored version of any innate abilities the Prime Conduit possesses, scaled to safety thresholds.
Elias's breath hitched. He reread that last part several times. Marvel Character? What in God's name did that mean? Was it a code? A classification he didn't understand? The term felt oddly familiar, like a half-remembered brand name or a character from some obscure mythology. He filed it away, his mind already seizing on the more immediate, more understandable implications.
Ten percent. Or… one hundred percent.
His eyes, usually so calm and analytical, widened slightly. If he gave someone Barbarian powers – made them, say, twice as strong as a normal man – he would get ten percent of that boost. So, he'd become... twenty percent stronger than he currently was? That was… significant. If he found someone completely, unquestioningly loyal… he'd become twice as strong.
His mind, accustomed to calculating profits and losses, rent arrears and repair costs, was now grappling with an entirely new, exhilarating arithmetic. The System was a multiplier. A force multiplier. And he was its nexus.
The implications were staggering. Criminal elements, political leverage, personal security… With such power, discreetly applied, he could reshape more than just his balance sheets. He could reshape lives. He could ensure his own security, his own prosperity, in a way that mere wealth never could. This depression, this precarious world… it could become his oyster.
He thought of the city outside: the gangs carving out territory in the dockyards, the corrupt officials skimming from public funds, the ordinary people struggling just to survive. He could change things. He could control things.
The initial shock was giving way to a cold, calculating thrill. This wasn't just a power; it was a responsibility, yes, but also an unprecedented opportunity. He was sixteen, already an old man in a boy's body due to circumstance. This System didn't frighten him with its potential; it resonated with a core part of him he'd barely known existed – a desire for order, for control, for influence beyond mere brick and mortar.
"Thomas," Elias breathed out. Thomas MacIntyre. The groundskeeper for his largest property, a sprawling apartment complex near Parc Lafontaine. Thomas was an old soldier, Scottish, with a back as straight as his moral code and a loyalty to Elias that bordered on familial. He'd served Elias's father before him, and after the parents' death, had taken it upon himself to be a gruff, watchful guardian for the young landlord. Elias had no doubt: Thomas's loyalty was absolute.
If he empowered Thomas with Barbarian strength… He'd gain that strength entirely. He'd become, in an instant, far more than a clever boy.
The glowing blue rectangle pulsed softly, as if awaiting his decision.
"System," Elias said aloud, his voice still a little shaky but firming with each syllable. "How do I… select a recipient? And how do I… empower them?"
[Mental Intent & Proximity Protocol:]
[Focus your intent on the desired individual within a ten-meter range. Verbally or mentally designate the Troop Class. System will confirm viability and available Energy. Upon confirmation, channel your will to initiate the transfer.]
[Caution: Initial empowerment can be disorienting for the recipient. Ensure a controlled environment.]
A controlled environment. And Thomas was due to check in with him tomorrow morning about a persistent plumbing issue in the west wing. Here. In his apartment.
A slow smile touched Elias Thorne's lips, a subtle curving that held no boyish joy, but rather the keen, sharp anticipation of a predator sighting its first true prey. Or perhaps, a king surveying a newly revealed kingdom.
"Tomorrow, then," he murmured, his gaze returning to the lines of text floating in the air, their glow reflecting in his intent eyes. "Tomorrow, we begin."
The numbers on the ledger for the Rue Sainte-Catherine tenement still showed Mr. Dubois three dollars short. Elias picked up his pen, his hand perfectly steady now. He dipped it in the inkwell and, with a decisive stroke, crossed out the debt.
A small act. An insignificant gesture in the grand scheme of things.
But tonight, nothing felt insignificant anymore.
The world had tilted on its axis, and Elias Thorne, landlord and nascent System wielder, was suddenly standing on much firmer ground. The kind of ground from which empires were built.
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