CH05: The Price of Power

  Ruppert gazed at the approaching Grand Westland Hotel. How many men had he swayed under that opulence? How many promises, threats, and favors had shaped elections, silenced opposition, and rewritten the city's future? The building was a relic of old power draped in the brilliance of the future. Tall, polished dark pillars stood like silent sentinels, scrutinizing his approach, weighing his worth.

  Between them, gold-trimmed glass doors pulsed faintly, as though beating in rhythm with his own heart. They welcomed him, as they always had. The convoy slowed. The hotel’s smart-glass facade shimmered, absorbing the city’s neon glow. The shifting reflections had always calmed him, centering his thoughts, a quiet ritual before stepping into the fray.

  But tonight, the light twisted strangely, casting shadows that felt more like a warning than an embrace. Ruppert’s fingers tapped against the car’s armrest. Tonight, he wasn’t here to play the kingmaker. He was here to make a deal with the devil. The car door clicked open. He stepped out. His foot sank into the velvet-red carpet, the fibers swallowing his weight in warning.

  Tread lightly.

  The double doors swung open, and the conference room swallowed him whole. The lingering event crashed over his senses like a torrent, threatening to pull him under. His name slithered through whispered hushes, skittering across the room, rippling through his consciousness like stones on water.

  “The minister? At this hour?”

  “Didn’t expect him so late…”

  “The Master of Voice? This should be interesting.”

  Ruppert liked to think of himself as a pious and righteous man, one who would usually scoff at the title. Tonight, however, it stung. It crawled under his skin, burrowing deep. His jaw clenched. He advanced through the thinning crowd, his steps deliberate and measured, as though he ruled the space. Yet each step felt shackled, the weight of the day coiling around his limbs. He was a veteran in the theater of power, and so the mask remained, indifference etched into every line of his face.

  Glass clinked. Fabric rustled. Men of influence ceded passage, while others leaned in for a better look. For the first time, an unfamiliar sensation coiled around him. He felt observed, no, appraised. Weighed like goods on a merchant’s stall.

  He barely acknowledged the fleeting greetings and stretched smiles, offering only a curt nod in return. His focus never wavered. He had already locked onto his target.

  Luciano.

  Luciano stood near the balcony, his back to the room, gaze seemingly lost in the city beyond. But Ruppert knew better. Nothing about Luciano was unintentional.

  He had expected to meet the man in his study, as agreed. Instead, upon arriving, he had been redirected here. A stage, not a meeting room. The first sign he was already dancing in Luciano’s palm.

  A flicker of irritation ran through him. His voice came out sharper than intended.

  “Luciano.”

  The reaction was immediate, too perfect. Luciano spun on his heel, his glass tilting just enough for a splash of deep amber to stain his pristine tuxedo. A sharp inhale, a dramatic flinch, eyes wide, hand clutching his chest.

  “Bless the Creator! Minister Ruppert, you nearly sent me to my grave!”

  He panted as if his soul had just been yanked back into his body, the untouched remains of his drink still swirling in his hand. A performance. Every last bit of it.

  “For a second, I thought my late father had returned to haunt me. He was a vengeful man, that one. No one calls me Luciano anymore, you know. It is ‘Don Luciano’ to you.”

  Even as he dabbed at the stain with a silk handkerchief, the flicker of amusement never left his lips. The predator was playing with his prey. Ruppert gritted his teeth. He had been prepared for retaliation. He had denied Luciano an audience once before. The man was taking his pound of flesh.

  All around him, the atmosphere shifted. The idle hum of conversation had died, curiosity sharpening into something heavier. Whispers no longer scattered aimlessly but circled him, tightening. The audience was set. The theater curtains had lifted.

  He felt exposed.

  He swallowed his pride. Reminded himself why he was here. Why he had to endure this. Westland’s integrity was at stake.

  “Don Luciano, may we speak privately?”

  The words felt like a beggar’s request. But he would endure. Luciano’s foxlike grin widened, and Ruppert tasted ash on his tongue.

  “Why, Minister, what could a man of your stature possibly need from a poor, simple merchant like myself?”

  The word poor dripped from Luciano’s lips like oil, thick and slick, designed to enrage. A poor, simple merchant? The bastard owned the most prestigious hotel in Westland, had his fingers in half the city’s dealings, and yet he played the humble tradesman.

  Ruppert’s glare burned into him, but Luciano was toying with his prey.

  The silence between them stretched, tension tightening like a wire. Around them, the crowd leaned in, hungry and expectant, waiting to see who would draw first blood.

  Luciano took a slow, deliberate step forward, tilting his head as though listening to the room’s anticipation, feeding off it. Then, his voice dipped low, just enough for Ruppert to hear.

  “Or should I say… Master of Voices?”

  The well-honed mask, so carefully crafted, cracked. Luciano’s words were a precisely placed blade, slid between his ribs with expert precision. Was it exhaustion that made him falter? The weight of the endless night? Or was it the sting of his own pride being trampled underfoot? It didn’t matter.

  Before Luciano’s smirk could settle, Ruppert closed the space between them. His fingers clamped onto the man’s collar. The silk was infuriatingly soft, betraying its obscene quality even as it bunched beneath his grip.

  Luciano’s posture didn’t break, but his gaze sharpened, dark and dangerous. Ruppert didn’t care. No more games. No more performances. His voice was a blade pressed to the throat.

  “I need the Shadow.”

  A displeased tut escaped Luciano’s lips as Ruppert released him. Then, as swiftly as the moment had shattered, the act returned. Luciano adjusted his collar, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, as though Ruppert’s grip had never touched him.

  “Urgent, I see.”

  The lightness in his voice remained, but the amusement in his eyes had dulled, replaced by something harder.

  “My apologies for wasting your time, Minister.”

  He gestured toward the exit, smooth and unhurried.

  “Shall we move to my suite? If it suits you, of course.”

  Ruppert’s shoulders sagged slightly. A misstep. A moment of emotion slipping past his control. Grinding his teeth, he steeled himself and followed. This was for the greater good.

  His pride was a small price to pay.

  #

  Ruppert followed as Luciano sauntered ahead, unhurried, savoring his impatience like a fine delicacy.

  The urgency in Ruppert’s blood screamed for the man to move faster. It took all his restraint not to seize him by the collar and drag him forward. But he had no idea where the rat kept his nest.

  He had never truly considered who owned this hotel. To him, it had always been his castle, his stage for scheming and maneuvering. But tonight, that illusion cracked.

  He watched Luciano, how he pranced through the halls nonchalantly. Ruppert realized he had never been the king. Tonight, he was just another guest.

  A few corridors and turns later, they reached a nondescript wall, adorned with an unremarkable painting.

  Luciano leaned in. A holographic scanner swept across his face.

  With a faint hiss, the wall split at its center, revealing a hidden entrance.

  A glass elevator waited beyond, an unobstructed view of Westland’s capital stretching before them.

  For a moment, Ruppert forgot his exhaustion. The sight was breathtaking, a city bathed in its own artificial glow, sprawling beneath him like a world at his command.

  Luciano flicked a black magnetic card across the scanner. The doors whispered open.

  Ruppert had never imagined the devil’s lair would have a stairway to heaven.

  The elevator climbed endlessly, Ruppert’s foot tapped against the floor, a restless rhythm he suspected was music to Luciano’s ears. Finally, with a soft chime, the crystalline doors slid open.

  Two figures in black stood before a grand double door. They carried no insignia, no visible weapons, yet the stench of blood clung to them. Their stance reminded Ruppert of Yuan Rinpoche, the Silent One. Absolute stillness, unlike her, these men were poised for violence at a moment’s notice.

  These were the Shadows, specters that moved unseen, a whisper in the night that carried weight heavier than steel. The secret army of Don Luciano. The guardians of the Tenebre family. One of many reasons Ruppert had always refused to deal with Luciano.

  Because the Shadows never left loose ends. No one who made an unsavory deal with Luciano lived to say otherwise.

  The two guards bowed, and the double doors swung open, unveiling Luciano’s so-called ‘study.’

  The word sounded like a mockery. The space that dwarfed the presidential office, washed Ruppert in unease. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and rare manuscripts. Between them, tapestries of forgotten wars and fallen empires stretched across the spaces where books did not. At the center, a single slab of stone rested atop a desk. Not just any stone. The same impossible material as the Sanctuary beneath the Basilica. Ruppert’s breath hitched. How?

  No, what was worse was that Luciano had reduced it to mere furniture. Beyond the desk, a semicircular window stretched floor to ceiling. The night sky spilled into the room, bathing the space in a cosmic glow.

  And then he saw them. Quantum batteries. Rows of them. Large enough to power military compounds.

  His breath caught, involuntarily taking a step forward, the shock left his lips in an unfiltered gasp.

  "That’s illegal!"

  Even he, with all his pull in government, wouldn’t dare claim quantum batteries outright. Those were state-controlled assets.

  A soft hum vibrated through the air as Luciano’s fingers brushed against the slab.

  The crystal shimmered beneath his touch, the quantum batteries humming in response.

  He turned; eyes gleaming. The light refracted off his figure, casting him in an ethereal glow.

  Luciano’s stare pierced through him, weighing him, measuring him. Lording over him.

  “Illegal is my middle name, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The devil’s lair was veiled as a celestial throne.

  For the first time, Ruppert felt small.

  Luciano waved a hand, and the room adjusted, lighting softening to a more accommodating glow.

  A small reprieve. An illusion of comfort.

  Ruppert exhaled, forcing himself to steady his composure.

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  “Please, Ruppert… May I call you Ruppert?”

  He swallowed the condescension. Falling into Luciano’s game had been inevitable, but accepting it still burned. Even Voss himself would have struggled in his place.

  He followed Luciano’s gesture toward a set of leather chairs and lowered himself into one, fatigue straining the process. The chair welcomed him, and for a moment, he fought the lulling temptation of rest. Luciano moved to the small table between them, his fingers brushing the surface.

  A soft hiss.

  A section of the floor split open, and a hidden bar rose in smooth silence.

  Crystal-cut decanters came into view, filled with golden, amber, and obsidian-colored liquors, their surfaces catching the dim light like liquid fire.

  Luciano took his time selecting a bottle. More performance.

  “Care for a drink?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he poured himself a glass, swirling it lazily.

  “I did spill my last one.”

  Ruppert’s eyelids were heavy. His mind fogged. His patience frayed.

  “Enough charades.” His voice was raw. “You know why I’m here. You’ve had your fun. Now lend us your eyes and ears.”

  Luciano ran a finger along the rim of his glass, studying him, waiting.

  Then, he took a slow sip, savoring it. A hunter, toying with his exhausted prey.

  “Us?”

  The single word was a scalpel. Ruppert’s spine stiffened. A mistake. Luciano’s gaze sharpened, dissecting him, peeling away his mask with casual precision.

  “Who is ‘us,’ Minister?”

  The words shrunk the space between them.

  “What are you brewing, Ruppert? It is unlike you to ever need the Shadow.”

  A slick warmth crept over Ruppert’s skin. A cold sweat. He needed to breathe, needed to shake free from Luciano’s hold. He sat up, straightening, forcing whatever strength he had left into his posture.

  “We… I need intel.”

  Luciano’s smirk returned.

  “Do you now?” He swirled his drink. “Last, I recall, you said something about never doing business with ‘the likes of me.’”

  This was it. The reason behind the entire spectacle.

  “It hurt my pride, Minister.” Luciano exhaled in mock disappointment. “And as you may have heard, I am a very prideful man.”

  Ruppert felt his blood heat. Anger. Frustration. Hatred.

  Luciano watched him, satisfied. “Just as you are.”

  Then, with a sigh, he shook his head, feigning regret.

  “But… as you know, I am a businessman first and foremost.”

  His eyes gleamed. The predator scenting blood.

  “So, tell me, Minister…” He leaned forward, the space tightening.

  “What can you offer this poor, simple merchant?”

  The noose had tightened. Effortlessly.

  For a moment, Ruppert considered walking away. But the stakes were too high. And then, something strange. A quiet resolution settled within him. This was for Westland. He met Luciano’s hungry gaze with an equally fierce one.

  “Intel for intel, Don Luciano. That’s the deal.”

  Luciano studied him, appraising the deal, honing the silence into a sharp edge.

  Then, he smiled, like a boy inspecting a new toy.

  #

  Luciano’s chuckle slithered through the room, wrapping around Ruppert like a tightening noose. He leaned back, swirling his liquor victoriously.

  “And what intel could you offer me, the Shadow of Westland?”

  A taunt. A dismissal. But Ruppert had played this game long enough to know when to raise the stakes.

  “The RHU Project.”

  Luciano barely blinked. Of course, he had already heard about the conference. The only reaction to the revelation was a raised eyebrow, not in surprise, but in expectation.

  Ruppert sighed and pressed on.

  “Voss wants to raise the dead and throw them onto the front lines.”

  Luciano released a bored tut, tilting his glass before downing the rest of his drink in a single gulp.

  Ruppert felt his stomach twist. He was losing him.

  “It’s sacrilegious! We must stop them!”

  The words came out sharper than he intended, almost desperate. His fist clenched as he searched Luciano’s face, but the man remained unmoved, a statue of indifference. The devil had no use for morality.

  “Ah, ever the moral warrior are you, Minister?”

  The opportunity was slipping. He needed leverage. Something bigger.

  Luciano exhaled, stretching his limbs like a bored emperor dismissing the concerns of a peasant.

  “Why should I care if it’s droids or corpses fighting under The Claws? so long as Quarkon is secured.”

  The condescension slithered into his tone, and Ruppert yielded. He had to. For the greater good.

  His voice dropped lower.

  “Would you care to bring down Voss and Markov?”

  Luciano froze.

  Just for a breath, but Ruppert saw it. The faintest tension flickered through his fingers.

  Yes. That got his attention.

  Confidence reignited in Ruppert’s chest. Power and rivalry. A chance to eliminate strong opponents. In politics, that was the ultimate currency.

  Luciano exhaled through his nose, a soft chuckle forming. But his amusement was no longer condescending, it was intrigued.

  “That is a rebellious thought, Minister. I wouldn’t expect it from you.”

  He had recovered, slipping his mask back on as if it had never cracked. But now, Ruppert sat as his equal at the table.

  “It is no rebellion to protect one’s nation when its leaders steer it toward ruin.”

  Luciano chuckled, but something in it had shifted. He leaned forward, the space between them shrinking.

  “And what can you do alone, Minister? What is your plan?”

  Ruppert interlaced his fingers, leaning back with deliberate calm. A shift in control. He had something Luciano wanted, and now the game was changing.

  Ruppert saw something new in his eyes. Greed. Not just for money or power, but for something bigger.

  “My, my, Minister,”

  Luciano exhaled.

  “I must admit. You have me sold.”

  He extended a hand.

  “You shall have my eyes and ears.”

  Ruppert rose. A voice in the back of his mind screamed for him to stop.

  He hesitated. Just for a breath. But weariness and the taste of victory smothered it. Hands clasped and the deal was struck.

  As Ruppert descended in the crystal elevator, the weight of victory settled over him. He had won.

  Or so he thought.

  Luciano stood at the edge of his semicircular window, his fingers grazing the slab, feeling the hum of the quantum batteries beneath his touch. His gaze locked on a distant skyscraper at the center of the business district.

  “A secret sanctum under the Basilica… how curious.”

  His fingers drummed against the stone. The pulsing hum of the battery followed in rhythm.

  "So that’s where it was hiding all along."

  A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

  “Markov, you slippery bastard…” he murmured, tilting his head.

  “How did you find out?”

  #

  On the outskirts of Westland’s capital, beneath a rugged mountain range, Dr. Aldric Harrow stood before a massive window overlooking a gargantuan chamber. Hands clasped behind him, fingers absently rubbing together, he took in the sight below.

  Markov had outdone himself. In the vast, echoing space, six enormous pools encircled a towering column of quantum batteries that rendered the meager ones in Luciano’s office child’s play. The tower soared from floor to ceiling, dominating the cavern as it pulsated with raw energy, its rhythmic thrum matching the beat of Harrow’s own heart. Yet it was not the machinery that captivated him; it was the orderly rows of bodies, suspended in a still, unnerving liquid. Their pristine forms gave the illusion of peace, but Harrow knew it was a lie.

  His thoughts drifted. If the underworld were real, would it resemble this? Would his Hellen, too, float in silent suspension? Perhaps one day, he too would float among them.

  His mind strolled back to his private lab, Prima by his side, tubes and wires latched onto one of her hands, as they researched ways to understand how to duplicate the success of her implantation in other bodies. It was there they discovered that the reason behind the success was the compatibility between Vivifica and Prima’s melted Quarkon core.

  The revelation led Harrow to add liquefied pure Quarkon into the Vivifica as a core ingredient. There were promising results in subsequent AI implantation tests. However, the body failed to contain the AI, leading to gruesome cadavers. Ultimately, they discovered that by allowing the upgraded Vivifica to pass through Prima, she could tap into the liquid and activate a quantum resonance. She could perceive the liquid, spreading her code into the liquid, and from there, into the new RHUs.

  Thus, the hypothesis was tested. They had successfully created two subsequent RHUs, two bodies, an extension of her. However, complications occurred, and a spike in brain activity warned Harrow that overloading her brain would be fatal.

  Naturally, they had presented the RHUs to Markov, but Harrow did not reveal the nature of the AI inside those bodies.

  A deep hum pulled him back to the present. He leaned forward, pressing his palms against the glass. Bowing his head, he thought of tonight. They intended to splice her code into ten thousand RHUs. It was a leap of faith. He had no idea what that would do to her. Offering a prayer to the Creator would fall on deaf ears. He had forsaken faith.

  If tonight’s implantation succeeded, Voss would have his army even sooner. If it failed, Westland would fall, and with it, Harrow’s ambition for humanity to transcend.

  “Warehouse 01,” Harrow murmured, a chuckle laced with disbelief. How many more warehouses had Markov stashed under the mountain? That the process could be replicated on such an industrial scale was mind-boggling. Had Markov foreseen this success at insemination? The thousands of corpses below almost suggested foresight, Yet the faint smell of fresh paint told him otherwise.

  “Dr. Harrow… we are ready,” came a clear, feminine voice. Dr. Silva stood there, digital controller in hand. Her presence was an unpleasant reassurance, the pity in her eyes gnawed at him.

  The hum of the quantum batteries intensified as if drawing energy from the air. Just as Harrow reached for the green light, a hissing sound announced the opening of the control room door, followed by the grating voice of his benefactor.

  “Harrow! I trust all is ready?”

  Markov strolled in, jovial, casually seizing the operation as if it were his domain.

  “I am beginning to suspect you’ve implanted a chip in my brain, Markov,” Harrow muttered. “How is it that you always appear on the brink of every major trial?”

  A mocking chuckle followed. Everyone knew that while Harrow might be the Chief Executive Researcher, Markov was the one writing the checks and running the show.

  “Now, now, Harrow. You know I wouldn’t miss science cracking open the gate to the underworld?” Markov teased, swirling the glass of dark liquor in his hand.

  Harrow tensed. This was his dream, his ambition. He stood on the precipice of the unknown. His fingers tensed on the glass as Markov drew near.

  “Look at that. Do you think the Creator will smite you for toying with death?” Markov asked in a tone that cut like ice. His attention was on Prima, who was currently trapped in a web of cables and tubes, Vivifica laced with pure Quarkon flowed through her, drawing strands of her code to initiate quantum resonance with the RHUs.

  Harrow’s gaze remained fixed on the sea of silent bodies. “Creator or not, we’re at a tipping point. This army will change the game, Markov. It’s time to wake them up.”

  His tone was sullen. The process had to succeed, everything depended on it.

  “I am one step closer to transcending humanity, Markov.”

  Yet our nation is shackling me down after such a great leap.

  Markov scowled, his expression hardening.

  “I do not care what ambition my sister instilled in you. Do not forget that you conducted your research simply because she died. This was meant to be her funding.”

  Harrow said nothing. Instead, he strode toward Prima, resting his hand on her, leaning on her cold skin to douse the boiling rage in his stomach.

  “Begin the sequence, Silva. Let us crack the gate of the underworld.”

  Prima’s pupils fluttered as Silva initiated the sequence, activating thousands of strands of Prima’s code, destined to inseminate the corpses below. Prima’s body spasmed with the effort.

  As Harrow walked back toward Markov, his gaze swept over the pools, where veins of cables and tubes writhed like metallic eels around the lifeless forms.

  “I am not Hellen. I am better.”

  Markov’s eyebrow rose. His glance said it all: you hadn’t won, you’d just outlasted her

  Below, scientists and machines swarmed like an ant colony. The pools began bubbling, then fell silent, the collective expectation tangible. Harrow and his team had completed the insemination process, yet now they waited, hearts pounding, for the bodies to move.

  Behind him, the monitors tracking Prima’s vitals began chiming restlessly, and Dr. Silva’s gasp forced him to turn.

  Dread crawled up Harrow’s throat as he saw Prima convulsing, seizing. His face paled. What he feared was happening.

  “What is going on?” Markov demanded, his tone dangerous.

  “Damn it. How did no one consider it?” Harrow cried out. The feigned reaction was real now, his surging panic undeniable as he lunged toward Prima. The bulging veins in her forehead pulsed violently while the cerebral monitor shrieked with signs of neural overheating.

  “Harrow? Explain.”

  Markov’s commanding tone burrowed into him. Harrow’s voice trembled with dread as he lied.

  “I implanted strands of Prima into the corpses. The process succeeded, but I did not account for the toll on the human brain.”

  Markov’s face darkened. His gamble was slipping through his fingers.

  “You were supposed to use the government-approved AI, Harrow.”

  The cold reprimand stung, but Harrow cared only for his masterpiece.

  Then, the convulsions ceased. Prima opened her eyes, and a collective gasp swept the room. All gazes turned to the still pools… as thousands of pairs of eyes opened.

  #