The Morning of Indigestion
Time: 07:00 AM (Day 5)
Location: Penthouse Dining Room — Apex Tower.
Victory feels sore and stiff.
An hour ago, we felt like kings of the world as we slipped out the back door of The Velvet Chip with bags full of credit chips. But now, with the adrenaline gone and the morning sun glaring across the Penthouse dining table, we're just a bunch of sleep-deprived, weary people.
No grand celebration. No alcohol. Just the smell of cheap coffee and the tap-tap-tap of Vianna's fingers against her holographic tablet screen.
"Pocket change," muttered Director Vianna with a dismissive tone.
She sat at the end of the table, still in her now-wrinkled evening gown. In front of her were stacked three metal suitcases filled with physical Credit Chips and Lux cash. Not enough to buy a country, but enough for an ordinary person to retire early.
"Net total after laundering fees and bribes to the backdoor guards… just 120,000 Lux," Vianna continued, tossing a 500-Lux chip onto the pile as if it were trash. "This isn't even enough to cover the losses in my stock portfolio, Wynter. We robbed a casino, not the central bank."
"It's enough to pay for electricity, staff salaries, and meat supplies for six months, Vianna. Be grateful," I replied hoarsely.
I sat in the main chair, wrapped in a thick blanket. My body shivered slightly—a lingering effect of the Thermodynamic Debt from using ice magic last night. In my hands was a mug of hot water, the only thing that felt comforting right now.
Sitting on the table—literally on the table—was Kara, enjoying her breakfast. She didn't eat like an animal, but her portions were still inhuman. Two large plates of steak and a pile of bread vanished within minutes. She looked satisfied, like a big cat that had just feasted.
"Don't listen to that Witch-Granny, Boss," Kara said between relaxed chews. "120k is a lot. In Valdor, you could buy a whole company of secondhand tanks for that."
"We're not buying tanks, Kara. We're buying stability," Rian interjected.
Rian sat in a corner, looking the most normal among us. He was organizing receipts and drafting budgets on his tablet. His face was tired but not panicked. He seemed relieved that we finally had positive numbers in our ledger.
"Electricity bill paid. Cafeteria debt cleared. I've even set aside a budget for new encryption servers so Vianna won't have to hack the neighbors' doors again," Rian reported while adjusting his glasses.
"Good," I said, taking a sip of the hot water. "At least we're not bankrupt today."
The room was quiet. The city below, Zero Point City, was waking up. No police sirens were wailing for us. Last night's robbery was executed "cleanly" enough—most would see it as a Senate asset seizure because the casino was illegal. Bureaucracy is a cozy blanket for crime.
"Still hurting?" asked Sister Elara, who appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of syringes.
She walked toward me, smiling warmly like a school nurse.
"Feels like my blood's been replaced with ice water," I answered honestly.
"That's because you were wasteful, Praetor," Elara said, expertly injecting a warm serum into my shoulder. "Your Triad core isn't used to that level of output. You need efficiency training, or you'll spend half your life shivering under a blanket."
The serum worked quickly. The cold in my bones receded, replaced by artificial warmth. I let out a long sigh and leaned my head back against the chair.
"So…" Vianna said without looking up from her tablet. "What's next? We have capital. We have a team. You want to invade Valdor?"
"Sleep," I replied. "The plan is to sleep for twenty hours."
But as if the universe refused to let me rest, my wrist vibrated.
BZZZT. BZZZT.
Not a normal message vibration. This was a long, rhythmic, painful buzz coming from the Magitek Gauntlet on my left hand.
Everyone in the room froze.
Vianna lowered her tablet. Kara stopped chewing. Rian stared at my wrist with wide eyes.
The Gauntlet screen lit up on its own. Not the standard Senate blue, but a Pale Gold color.
A holographic logo slowly rotated in the air: a Tri-Wheel with an Eye in the center.
PRIORITYALERT:SKYLIAISONCHANNELPRIORITYALERT:SKYLIAISONCHANNEL
"Damn," Vianna whispered softly. "That's the direct line."
A short, concise, and blunt text appeared in the air:
TO: GRAND PRAETOR WYNTER ASH
FROM: THE JOINT COMMISSION (ZENITH-ZERO)
SUBJECT: MANDATORY AUDIT
Administrative anomalies detected in Eastern Sector (Casino Incident). Field reports insufficient.
Your presence required for verbal clarification.
LOCATION: MAIN LIFT TERMINAL.
TIME: 08:00 (TODAY).
Absence will be considered resignation from office.
Silence.
I read the message twice. No death threats. No troops descending. Just a meeting summons. Sky bureaucracy worked exactly as I imagined: boring, demanding, and annoying.
"They know," Rian said quietly, his voice slightly anxious but controlled. "They know about the casino. But they didn't send police. They sent a summons letter."
"Because to them, this isn't a crime, Rian," Vianna replied, calming down. "To the Sovereigns, our robbery is just 'accounting errors.' They want to know why money is circulating without their permission."
"They want their cut," Kara concluded roughly.
"Pretty much," I answered. I stood up, letting the thick blanket fall from my shoulders.
My body was still a bit stiff, but I forced myself upright. Couldn't appear weak in front of the higher-ups.
"Audit at 8 AM," I murmured, glancing at the wall clock. "I have 45 minutes to shower, change, and prepare my best acting script."
"You're going up there?" Elara asked, her eyes scanning my reaction. "The Mana pressure at Zenith-Zero is far denser than here. In your unstable condition…"
"I'll be fine," I cut her off. "Give me another booster dose before I leave. The rest is mental."
I looked at my team.
"Vianna, make sure that money 'disappears' into the system before I return. Rian, prepare a fake report stating the casino owed 200% in back taxes. Kara… don't kill anyone while I'm gone."
"No promises," Kara grinned.
I walked toward the bathroom, turning off the still-blinking golden notification on my Gauntlet.
The robbery was over. Now came the harder part: a Board Meeting with the Gods.
"Good morning, world," I muttered sarcastically. "Let's go lie."
Time: 07:40 AM.
Location: Private Hangar — Base Zone of The Great Tether.
The air in this private hangar wasn't just dead; it felt sterilized.
It smelled of cold ozone, expensive machine lubricant, and desperation hidden beneath perfume. No engine sounds, no hissing steam, no unnecessary disturbances. I had deliberately left my "muscle" behind. Bringing an emotionally volatile former Valdor Centurion before The Joint Commission was like bringing a live grenade into a heart surgery room. The Sky didn't need violence; the Sky needed boring administrative compliance.
I stood before a Blackstone lift capsule, its surface absorbing light, making it look like a hole in reality—or a very expensive vertical coffin. Around me, my core administrative team was making final preparations. They weren't oiling swords; they were greasing lies.
"Encrypted Memory-Glass, Praetor," Rian said, handing me a paper-thin glass slab.
His hands weren't trembling this time. Rian was in his element: bureaucracy. For someone like him, altering facts on paper was more satisfying than changing the world.
"I've performed… 'semantic adjustments' on all incidents this week," Rian explained flatly, as if discussing the weather rather than serious crimes.
I raised an eyebrow, looking at the transparent glass containing our criminal data. "Summarize the key points."
Rian tapped his tablet. The sound echoed sharply in the silent room.
"The Velvet Chip robbery incident is reclassified as 'Illegal Asset Liquidation & Eastern Sector Tax Enforcement Operation'. The funds we stole are classified as 'State Asset Seizure under Temporary Custody'."
"Good," I murmured. "And the two Valdor students I froze until their bones cracked?"
"Categorized as 'Level 5 Environmental Sanitation Protocol Enforcement'. Medical reports state they were carrying hazardous biological contaminants into the dormitory area. Your brutal actions are claimed as emergency quarantine procedures for public health."
I almost laughed, but the laugh stuck in my dry throat. Sanitation. Rian had just turned bone-breaking into a cleaning service. In this city, cruelty was just a matter of tidy bookkeeping.
"That's the language they understand, Wynter," Vianna's voice cut in, sharp and pragmatic.
The Aurum Director stood beside the capsule, checking her reflection on the polished black metal surface. She straightened the collar of her blazer, which cost a year's wages for a common laborer. She didn't see me as a friend; she saw me as a high-risk investment portfolio she was trying to protect from bankruptcy.
"Remember one golden rule up there," Vianna said without turning, her finger brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder. "Don't look greedy, but don't look poor."
She turned, her calculating purple eyes locking onto mine.
"The Sovereigns hate poverty as much as they hate rebellion. Poverty is a bad smell to them. If you look desperate, they'll replace you like a faulty battery. If you look too ambitious, they'll crush you. You must appear… controlled."
"I manage chaos, I don't create it," I repeated, feeling the bitterness of the phrase on my tongue. "I am an efficient manager."
"Exactly," Vianna nodded, satisfied, as if I were a dog that had just learned a new trick. "You're not a revolutionary hero. You're a bureaucrat cleaning up trash so their hands stay clean. Sell that narrative."
"Praetor."
A soft yet clinically authoritative voice came from the other side. Sister Elara stepped forward. She wasn't carrying documents or political advice. She carried a silver tray with a single syringe.
Inside the glass tube, a clear liquid swirled slowly, thick like syrup.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Nerve Suppressant & Biological Stabilizer," Elara answered calmly. "A blend of high-dose Moon-Lily root extract and Valdorian sedatives. Enough to knock out a Behemoth, or in your case, make you 'polite'."
She touched my robe sleeve, her fingers cold as they found my pulse point.
"Your problem isn't your arguments, Wynter. Your problem is your broken body," she whispered, her eyes examining my pale skin. "You constantly absorb heat and expel cold because of your leaky circuits. On the ground, you can hide it with thick jackets and fake smiles."
Elara looked up toward the high hangar ceiling, as if she could see the monsters waiting at the tower's peak.
"But at 10,000 meters, the atmosphere there is different. Your unstable body will react wildly to the… 'dense' environment. You'll start shivering violently, not from fear, but because your cells are screaming from hunger. Without this…" Elara tapped the syringe. "…you'll unconsciously freeze the interrogation chair just because you're nervous."
I swallowed. "You want to sedate me before the judgment hearing?"
"I want to numb you," Elara corrected. "You won't feel the cold, you won't feel fear, and your emotions will be locked inside a glass box. This isn't to fight them. It's so you don't tremble before the Gods. Gods don't like seeing humans tremble; it reminds them we're alive."
I nodded slowly, offering my left arm. "Do it. Make me a good puppet."
HISS.
The cold needle pierced my skin. It felt like ice water injected directly into my bloodstream.
Within seconds, the world changed.
The colors in the hangar became less sharp. The hum of the lights grew distant. My heartbeat slowed, its anxious thumping now a steady mechanical rhythm. The constant cold in my bones didn't disappear, but it felt… objective. As if the cold were happening to someone else's body that I was observing from afar.
My emotions flattened. Fear, anxiety, even my ambition—all muted behind a thick wall of cotton fog. I felt like a machine that had just been reset to factory settings.
Empty. Efficient. Numb.
"Perfect," Elara whispered, withdrawing the needle. "Your face is as flat as a corpse's now. That's the face bureaucrats like."
I straightened my robe sleeve. The fabric felt rough against my numb fingertips. I looked at each of them in turn.
The Scriptwriter (Rian). The Image Manager (Vianna). The Condition Keeper (Elara).
They had built the stage, the costume, and the script. Now it was the lead actor's turn to step up and pretend he had a soul.
"Guard the fortress," I ordered flatly. My voice sounded foreign—no intonation, no hesitation. Like a recording.
Without waiting for a reply or unnecessary sentimental farewells, I turned and stepped into the Blackstone capsule.
KLANG.
The heavy door closed with a sickening finality, cutting off the outside world. Absolute silence. Only me and the reflection of my pale face on the metal wall.