CH06 Of Faith, Spirituality, and Death

  Yusuf glared down from a massive arched window, perched atop the tallest spire of his domain, judging the infidels swarming below in Westland’s capital. Men and women who lived thanks the Creator will, but blind from his grace.

  The Grand Palace of Judgment had stood for centuries, its stone walls had borne witness of Generation of Al-hakim speaking for the creator, judging in his name. Yusuf savored the fresh holy air that danced in an out of the spire, its purity seemingly approving of his judgment.

  Behind him, he heard the rustling of papers and the murmurs of his priests, his little hands, his instruments of will, executing his justice, the Creator’s justice. At this moment, they were busy scouring lists of names. Potential sinners to be questioned. Children who had lost their faith, awaiting judgment. Information soon to be his. Information soon to become leads for action.

  To smite justice upon the human-faced shaitan, Aldric Harrow. A sigh drew Yusuf’s attention. His brow furrowed.

  “This leaves an unjust taste in my mouth, Holy One.”

  The rustling of papers stopped. Murmurs died. Yusuf tasted the apprehension in the air. Questioning him was the surest way to invoke his ire. His gaze fell upon Rafal. Meek. Hesitant. Always choosing the safe path. Afraid to offend. Afraid to punish. This man should never have been made High Priest.

  And yet, here he was, elevated by virtue of his pathetic, bureaucratic competence. He issued an irritated growl.

  “What is unjust is allowing that heretic Markov to deceive our faithful! And this Aldric demon to corrupt their bodies, desecrate their eternal rest!”

  His anger swelled with each step closer to Rafal, who watched him with thinly veiled concern.

  “We will do whatever it takes to bring the Creator’s wrath upon the sinners! It is our solemn duty as Al-Hakim!”

  Yusuf leaned in his hands pressing against the stone table that accompanied all his judgement, imposing his will. A thud of heavy boots echoed through the chamber, followed by a mocking chuckle. Yusuf turned sharply to the towering warrior-priest.

  “The Holy One speaks the truth.”

  Anwar. Adorned in the crimson and gold of the Yad Al-Hakim, his sworn brother, the man was a beast, looking no less imposing than the gigantic hammer strapped on his back. Unlike Rafal, Anwar never hesitated.

  “Only by purging these heretics can we restore order.”

  A deceptively soft voice slithered into the conversation.

  “With fear, brothers, the will of the Creator shall be known.”

  Juma. Yusuf’s orator, and his silver tongue. If the man so wished, he could convince the faithful that green was red, that the sun rose in the west.

  “We must frame our deeds as divine punishment. The faithful will rise against the heretics on their own.”

  Yusuf nodded in appreciation. These were his true confidants. His trusted hands.

  “We shall use both methods. Juma, begin spreading the words of the Creator. Let the people know: the unliving are unholy and should never see the light of day.”

  He turned to Anwar.

  “Mobilize the Yad Al-Hakim. Secure any sinner or lost children tied to these two demons. Deliver them to Jared.”

  A shift in the room. A presence that even Yusuf, for all his fervor, would rather avoid. Jared. The Priest-Inquisitor stood clad in deep red, his expression unreadable, except for the small, knowing smile curling at the edges of his lips.

  At Yusuf’s command, he bowed, and from beneath his robe, a dark red glove peeked into view. Too dark to be dyed. Even Yusuf felt the hair on his arms stand. No child left Jared without confessing.

  Just as the priests were about to leave for their respective tasks, the sharp echo of footsteps climbed the spiraling staircase. Yusuf felt his displeasure deepen.

  “Damn Zhanlüe Xuezhai.”

  The muttered curse left his lips before he could suppress it. None of his priests seemed to heard it. Anwar reacted, ever the alert soldier. His hand flew to the handle of the massive hammer strapped to his back. He issued a growl.

  “Who dares to intrude?

  The intruder’s voice was nonchalant, unconcerned.

  “Hospitality is not your strong suit, Commander Anwar.”

  A small figure stepped through the archway. His robes mirrored those of Wei Chen, save for the silver embroidery lining its edges, a mark of high rank within the Zhanlüe Xuezhai.

  Yusuf’s glare sharpened at the man’s audacity. This was his sacred ground, yet this outsider walked in as if he belonged. He despised them. Perhaps it was their disregard of the creator? These were men who played the role of the creator, Raising and razing civilization for the sake of ‘learning’.

  Before Yusuf could speak, Juma’s voice rang out first.

  “Who do you think you are, stepping onto this sacred ground, you slanted-eyed fool?”

  Yusuf glared at his foolish Cardinal, while he hated the Zhanlüe Xuezhai, he would not want them as enemies. Thankfully, the man did not flinch. Instead, he chuckled.

  “You ought to teach your dog to greet their guests instead of barking at them, Holy One.”

  Yusuf winced, he saw Anwar tensing, his grip on the hammer tightening. The chamber felt primed for violence. Yusuf sighed in exasperation. His priests were fanatics. They did not understand who they were dealing with. Threatening common folk was one thing. Threatening the Zhanlüe Xuezhai? Even he would not dare.

  Yusuf ended up greeting the man begrudgingly.

  “Zhang Chen.”

  The name alone was enough to calm his priests. Yusuf squared his shoulders, his dominance reaffirmed.

  “You are too late!”

  He declared the words triumphantly.

  “The plan has been decided and is already in motion.”

  Zhang Chen arched a brow.

  “You would act without our council?”

  Yusuf refused to dignify the question with an answer. Instead, he stared him down. Zhang Chen smirked, clearly amused.

  “It is your right, Holy One.”

  Then, a parting remark, one that made Yusuf’s jaw tighten.

  “Though, whipping a mule before it understands its mistake, only makes it more stubborn.”

  The words lingered in the air. It was a pointed Jab at the seething Juma. Yusuf resisted the urge to retaliate. He would not allow the strategist the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he instructed bitterly, insincere.

  “Rafal. Show our ‘guest’ his quarters.”

  Then, to Zhang Chen.

  “We shall consult you in due time.”

  And with that, the Bayt Al-Mutawakkilin moved.

  #

  While sunlight filtered through the tainted-glass windows of the Basilica of the Creator, Charles Cohen sat in silence, his fingers tapping the armrest of the ancient papal throne.

  Many had sat here before him, but how many had faced a peril as grave as the one now confronting the Creator’s faith? The Codex prophecy had haunted his sleep.

  He wondered: how many popes had looked this regal on the outside while carrying such fear within?

  The walking dead. Another trial from the Creator.

  His faithful and their ancestors, were about to be perverted by a delusional government and egomaniac scientists.

  He would not allow it.

  It was his duty, as the Creator’s hand, as the shepherd guiding his flock, to strike down heresy and lead the common soul back to the warm and forgiving embrace of the Maker.

  The burden of the task pulsed in the budging vein at his temple. He reached to rub it, for comfort, for clarity, then stopped himself.

  The sermon might be over, but pilgrims still moved through the Basilica. It would not do for the Creator’s chosen to appear troubled before his flock.

  He grumbled and rose from the throne where he had brooded too long.

  Behind it, a narrow door led to the sanctum, a private chamber reserved for holy deliberation.

  Inside, his four cardinals were already gathered, bent over parchment and reports from the lower clergy. Cohen’s steps gained firmness as resolve replaced doubt. His faith may have flickered in the silence of prayer, but his subjects must believe unconditionally. Especially now.

  He gripped the handle, banishing the specter of doubt to the recesses of his mind. Letting the Pope’s light shine once more. He was the Creator’s voice.

  “May the creators light guide you my brothers, for with his grace he has granted us a grave trial. The government-initiated RHU project is an abomination that must not see the light of day. Or else all that is holy will be tainted and redemption obsolete.”

  The engrossed cardinal peered his way, a bald skinny cardinal slapped the table, sending some lists, name list fluttering in shamble.

  “And how exactly, Holy Father, are we meant to do anything by drowning in these endless lists?”

  Cohen studied the frustrated cardinal with a trace of sympathy, judging from the dark pocket under his eyes, he has been moping over those lists since last night. His name was Joseph. Usually, Joseph was his most coolheaded priest. But the sleepless night staring at names for hours on end had made this otherwise docile men feral. As if on cue, the other frustrated Cardinal, the choleric one, Antoine, bounded from his chair, which fell to the stone with a loud clack.

  Here comes the verbal slapping from his lead preacher.

  “Holy Father, this is senseless. Going through millions of names is a fool’s errand, we are better off convincing the mass of the government transgression and let the creator's voice do the work.”

  A loud clang resounded in the chamber. Cohen turned to face a lean muscular man, who leaned on an oversized golden tower shield, a sign of his position. This was Jerome, the cardinal currently crowning the title of first protector of the guardian of the creator.

  “Your suggestion would put the children of the creator in danger, Antoine. The guardian of the creator’s, mighty as they maybe, will not prevail in a holy crusade against our own government.”

  Antoine fist slammed into the table; a fuming retort lashed out at Jerome.

  "That shield may be wide enough to cower behind, Jerome, but sitting here sifting through names? It serves neither us nor the Creator.”

  Restlessness led to frustration, Cohen was about to open his mouth to rein the soon to erupt pointless verbal fist fight, but a calm voice stopped him.

  “This is curious.”

  The room fiery atmosphere died down, all focus ravel around a man who was studying a portfolio titled Steve. He peered up and slightly shook the piece of document, his other hand thrummed the table, his eyes had a pensive quality about them.

  “Not the man himself, but his history, and his recent drift from the Creator’s light. This man, worked for a subsidiary unnamed company as a kart driver belonging to Julian Markov, and was laid off not a week ago. He did not come for his weekly confession this week.”

  Cohen failed to see how it was relevant and was leaning toward dismissing the information, but Antoine cut in instead.

  “So what? People are not always devout, some stray from the creator’s light every now and then. That man is irrelevant. This is all nonsense, Peter.”

  Peter, the cardinal who was perusing the portfolio, was rubbing his chin.

  “Holy father, first this man has never missed a confession for years, and second, his last confession is interesting, he confessed that he was afraid of the creator’s retribution for transporting the resting faithfull to purgatory.”

  Was there more to this? Or was Peter following dead end? Cohen extended his hand to have a look at the portfolio, but before he touched it, a knock resounded from the door.

  So soon? Cohen peered at the door as though he knew exactly who was beyond. He was informed that a Xanlai Xuezhai operative was to arrive to assist them, but he never expected them so soon. His cardinals however were clueless and therefore on edge, Jerome had his hand on the shield, not shielding. But aiming. Cohen rose his other hand calming his men.

  “Yes.”

  A man in a simple white dopo embroidered in silver walked in.

  “Ming Chen, of the Zhanlai Xuezhai greets the Holy Father and the esteemed cardinal.”

  A displeased tut, was spat from behind Cohen, he did not need to look to know that it was likely Antoine, that man never believe in stratagem, he would sooner jump in a pool of hot lava if he believed it was the creators will.

  “You are early, or better yet, right on time. Welcome strategist!”

  Cohen winced at the bitterness in his tone. He too did not particularly share love with the Zhanlai Xuezhai. He snatched Steve portfolio from Peter and pocketed it. He would study it further, it may prove valuable.

  “As it stands, my cardinals are torn between lighting the fire of rebellion or hiding under a rock. Or perhaps that is simply their frustration at the bureaucratic work imposed given the situation. Please,”

  He gestured to an empty chair, while smoldering his cardinal with a glare, warning them not to antagonize the strategist.

  “Lend us your wisdom, how should we proceed?”

  As the strategist walked silently toward the designated seat, Cohen observed the straw woven sandals the man wore, for a conflict thirsty faction who had played the board between Westland and the eastern nations for ages, these men lived a modest lifestyle.

  “I believe the board hasn’t shifted, as it stands you are still the snake prowling in the dark, but you face a beast with many heads, that grows back when slain, how then does one bring annihilation to such mighty foe? The answer is simple, all creature must feast, for starvation will end us all.”

  A deliberate loud yawn was heard as a response from a bored looking Antoine who merely shrugged under Cohen’s furious glare. He then scoffed at Ming Chen.

  “What gibberish! How exactly do you intend to starve Julian Markov, or the government for that matter.”

  Cohen felt the portfolio folded in his pocket, something about Steve and his last confession wiggled in his mind.

  Ming Chen chuckled.

  “How na?ve. Cardinal, what is the cause of your ailment? The government, Julian Markov or their chosen course of action?”

  Cohen eyes widened, but of course!

  “Logistic!”

  He muttered, standing upright, he turned to the smiling cryptic Ming Chen who seem to follow his train of thought.

  “That is correct Holy father. The project is in its infancy, a new bud, and like new bud requires nutrient to function. Supplies, funding, Infrastructure. Deprive the problem of its lifeblood and it will wither.”

  Cohen nodded, crippling the operation was the way to go.

  “Ridiculous. We are priests! Shepherd of the creator not covert military operatives!”

  Joseph retorted; Cohen saw the frustration on his furrowing brows.

  “And that is why we must move the masses, The government will answer to the people. We Move The people.”

  Antoine chimed in, burning fervor shone in his eyes as the man’s fist clenched in resolution.

  Cohen shook his head, he pictured the streets of Westland burning in anarchy, instead of stopping their government, they would help the eastern federation for an easy meal. The guerilla warfare is the better option. Ruppert mentioned something about getting his hand dirty. Perhaps that can come in handy.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “How about both?”

  Peter calm voice once again doused the heating atmosphere.

  “Is it not better to place your egg in different basket?”

  The cardinal was studying the strategist, who in turn had a bemused expression.

  “Holy father, is this man truly your cardinal? He would do well in the halls of Zhanlüe Xuezhai temple.”

  Cohen merely responded with a dry chuckle before giving his order.

  “Very well, Peter, as soon as you find individual that are related to the project, question them. Antoine, begin drafting sermons, if all else fail the people will speak for the creator. Jerome, increase training and mobilize the guardians, we must prepare for a potential crusade, recruit if you must. Joseph, lend them your ears and your mind. After, a good rest.”

  Cohen sighed, It appears that conflict was inevitable. Ming Chen was now conversing with Peter, the two bonding like long lost friend.

  The portfolio in his pocket was warm in his hand, a decision to throw a child of the creator into the hand of a monster began to bloom in his mind, it was time to make an unpleasant call to Yusuf.

  #

  Wei Chen enjoyed walking, especially in nature. The world whispered back when he wandered in silence.

  A day after the sanctuary meeting, he was already far from the capital, deep among the tallest peaks of Westland. The wind clawed at the cliffs, but he walked unbothered, wrapped in a white dopo trimmed with gold. Straw sandals met stone with quiet confidence. His eyes, sharp and distant, scanned the path ahead.

  “The dead walk the earth…” he murmured, as the Codex prophecy stirred in his mind. Was it connected to his own clan’s warning?

  The third power shall shatter the board.

  A new empire rising between Westland and the Eastern Federation? Impossible. The desert forbade it. The Claws of the World forbade it. Every civilization that tried had vanished into dust or been devoured before it could rise.

  He had to maintain balance. War must endure.

  Still, he would not have come to move pieces on the board if those words hadn’t truly unsettled him.

  The path narrowed. A round wooden door sat nestled in an ancient brick wall, untouched by time, a relic of ages past.

  This was the Nyepa Tsangma. The Monastery of Harmony.

  Two monks stood watch, cloaked in deep navy. They bowed. He returned the gesture. The doors opened.

  Beyond: wailing wind, and six hundred stone steps vanishing into mist.

  He stepped forward.

  He would not sway Yuan Rinpoche easily. But he needed her eyes. Her ears. Her silence.

  For conflict to remain balanced, she had to move.

  Like a blade to whetstone, he entered the wind. The door thudded shut behind him.

  Wei Chen climbed without pause. The wind screamed, tearing at his robe. Still, he carried on, each step decisive, each breath sharpening focus.

  At the summit, silence fell. The wind vanished. The cold eased. The mountain felt distant, despite being beneath his feet.

  It was a threshold.

  A circular platform awaited. At its far end stood Yuan Rinpoche.

  Plain white robe. Bare feet. Regal without ornament. Still as deep water. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  Behind her, a stairway led to a serene pagoda that seemed to float in the cloud. It welcomed him.

  Wei Chen stopped ten paces away.

  She bowed. Graceful. Precise.

  He bowed in return.

  For a time, they stood, allowing the silence to speak.

  Her gaze held a trace of regret. So, you have come, it seemed to say.

  He offered an apologetic smile, feeling like a single pebble disturbing still water.

  This exchange felt more sacred than the hollow diplomacy at yesterday’s gathering. That fool Ruppert had no etiquette for old customs.

  Wei Chen had often wondered why Yuan attended such meetings at all. She could vanish from the world entirely, if she wished.

  Perhaps, like him, she remained only to ensure it did not fall apart.

  Though unlike her, he remained for more than that.

  He remained because he lived for the conflict.

  Yuan gestured toward the pagoda. Wei Chen bowed in acknowledgment and followed.

  The structure was vast. Circles of rattan cushions ringed the floor, drawing the eye to the center, where a larger round mat hosted a low table set with two steaming cups of tea and two cushions. The timing was impeccable. Had she anticipated his visit?

  He lowered himself opposite Yuan, mirroring her posture. As he sat, a faint shift in the air made him stiffen.

  Two Vrata Mauna monks had been standing beside him the entire time. No. They were the same ones who had guarded the door below. He winced. He had never sensed them—not even their breath.

  The monks bowed to Yuan and moved to the outer circle, each selecting a cushion with deliberate purpose. Then, before his eyes, they vanished into thin air.

  That was why he needed them.

  Wei stared at the space where they had sat. What he could do with even one of them under his command… How much smoother his schemes would run.

  He turned his attention back to Yuan, suppressing the greed curling beneath his smile, and bowed again.

  She returned it with grace.

  Together, they lifted their cups and drank.

  For a long time, there were no words. Only the warmth of the tea, the stillness between them, and the thin trail of steam rising into the air.

  Wei finally spoke in a tempered voice.

  “The prophecy is no coincidence.”

  He watched her face for a flicker of unease. None came. Her eyes remained fierce and unflinching, as if seeing through his motives, his hunger for her monks.

  Wei felt exposed and offered an apologetic smile.

  “So perhaps the prophecy is a coincidence. But the dead speaking is not. This Prima walks. She talks. And more of her kind will follow. I don’t believe even you will stand by.”

  There. A pause, just as she raised her cup.

  “Silent one, will you allow the dead to talk?”

  He pressed forward.

  “Will that not break their eternal silence? Your eternal silence?”

  Still she said nothing, but all around him, faint shapes flickered in and out of view like ripples in heat. The monks had stirred.

  Wei kept his expression calm but smiled inwardly. They were listening.

  “Suddenly,” he said, lifting his cup again, “the Codex prophecy is no longer a coincidence.”

  He sipped slowly, studying Yuan. Her gaze sharpened.

  Must you do this? it seemed to ask.

  “Lend me your eyes and ears,” he said.

  It sounded more like a demand than an offer.

  “I wish to return silence to the deserving dead,” he added.

  A breeze passed through the chamber. The shifting shapes receded. Stillness returned.

  Wei rose and bowed deeply.

  “The dead must remain silent,” he said.

  Then he turned and walked away without another word.

  He felt her gaze on his back, sharp, accusing, but he did not slow.

  Then a voice spoke.

  It was one he had never heard before. Coarse from disuse, but beautiful in its clarity.

  “The dead must remain silent.”

  He smiled, victorious.

  The air trembled. The Vrata Mauna materialized on every cushion. They bowed low, then vanished into the wind.

  Wei Chen’s steps gained momentum, his confidence swelling as he descended into the wailing wind.

  The silence had been broken.

  #

  Luciano arrived at Markov Investment & Development Tower in a nondescript black car through its back entrance. It descended to the deepest level of the underground structure and came to a silent stop before what appeared to be a featureless wall.

  A shadowed figure stepped out first and opened the door for him. Luciano buttoned his tuxedo as he stepped out and pulled a sleek black magnetic card from his breast pocket. He pressed it against a seemingly arbitrary spot on the concrete surface. A low hum responded.

  The wall groaned. A crystalline elevator revealed itself.

  He turned to his aide, offering a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “This’ll take a while, Armand. Good chance to size him up. Maybe the time to rule in the light comes sooner than we think.”

  There were no buttons inside the elevator. Just silence and mirrored walls. Luciano placed his card on the panel. The door chimed and closed.

  At first, he smirked. Arms folded. Calculating. But as the endless ascent dragged on, the smirk faded, replaced by a scowl of mounting irritation. Even the panoramic sprawl of the capital behind him failed to impress. He’d been through this charade too many times. Julian Markov’s office wasn’t just high—it was designed to exhaust. To humble. To dominate before a word was spoken.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator stopped. The doors parted, revealing not a room, but an open sky.

  The platform floated like an island suspended in glass. At its center sat a man surrounded by a hurricane of holographic screens, data spiraling in quiet precision: economic indicators, warfront projections, demographic shifts, commodity flows. All of it danced around one still figure.

  Julian Markov, impeccably tailored as always, didn’t so much as glance up.

  Luciano stepped forward, the elevator closing behind him with a chime. He glanced at the refractive flooring—illusionary and seamless. It gave the impression of walking on air. Though the sun high above illuminated the space, the hidden air conditioning kept the atmosphere perfectly temperate. He hated that it thrilled him a little.

  Markov had spared no expense crafting the office of a god.

  Luciano scoffed under his breath. If the Creator were a bureaucrat, his throne might look like this.

  His gaze wandered toward something above Markov. That was new.

  Hovering a few meters above, suspended in stasis, was a white pod. Oval. Gleaming. Slowly rotating. It resembled the cryogenic capsules Markov had recently flaunted at development summits, but sleeker. Stranger. There was something final about it.

  Etched into its underbelly in chrome letters: S.A.M.

  He tutted, chastising himself. That wasn’t why he was here. He was here for the usual dance.

  His scowl deepened as he approached the still-engrossed magnate.

  “Luciano! You old dog.”

  Markov didn’t turn. His eyes remained locked on the streams of data, offering only his polished voice and smug greeting as recognition.

  Luciano clenched his jaw. That greeting was always the same—a king to his subject, never a peer. It was infuriating.

  Markov chuckled as if reading the thought.

  “Still making a habit of humiliating people in public?”

  The irony burned. Coming from a man who turned meetings into psychological sieges, what he did to Ruppert was child’s play in comparison.

  Among the flickering screens, Luciano caught one in particular—a silent clip of Ruppert grabbing him by the collar. He forced a chuckle.

  “The man walked into the trap willingly. How could I not entertain myself?”

  Markov barked a laugh, genuinely delighted. With a lazy wave of his hand, the holographic sea vanished.

  In its place, a sleek glass table blinked into existence. Two chairs followed.

  Luciano walked over, but before sitting, his gaze snagged again on the pod above, the way it spun, slow and silent, haloed by the sun. Something about it felt wrong.

  Markov’s voice was casual.

  “Curious? What can I say? I’m a man of peculiar taste. You don’t seem to like my new decoration.”

  Luciano sat, eyes still fixed on the pod.

  “You never place things without purpose. It’s not decoration. It’s bait.”

  Markov offered a sly grin.

  “And yet, you keep looking.”

  Luciano’s jaw tensed.

  “Your god complex knows no bounds. That pet scientist of yours, his little miracle, surely gave the government rats a hard-on.”

  Markov chuckled, brushing off the jab.

  “You’d be surprised what that miracle can do.”

  Luciano narrowed his eyes. Was Markov truly unconcerned? Ruppert still held sway, especially among the devout.

  Did he not know? That the Church of the Creator and the Bayt Al-Mutawakkilin had already caught wind of the project? That resistance was already mounting?

  “Ruppert won’t sit idle. If word of the RHU spreads, you’ll have protests on your doorstep. Yusuf. Cohen. You know how they’ll react.”

  Markov scoffed, waving a hand dismissively.

  “Let them. By the time they act, it’ll be too late. And if they push too hard...” He shrugged. “A civil war. That only helps the Eastern Federation. Of course, I’d rather avoid that, though it might serve me in the long term.”

  Luciano frowned. That was the thing. If public pressure mounted, if the government caved, the project would die. Markov couldn’t override that. Could he?

  Then Markov turned to him, eyes sharp.

  “Westland weakens by the year. Birthrates plummet. Morale collapses. Truthfully, I don’t care if it’s men, machines, or corpses holding the line. So long as we’re doing the pressuring. So long as the eastern federation scums are the ones starving.”

  Luciano stared at Markov who leaned forward, fingers steepled. The man’s mask cracking slightly, revealing something far colder beneath.

  “Which brings me to the real reason I summoned you.”

  That last word grated on Luciano’s nerves.

  He was not a subject.

  His teeth clenched as he suppressed a retort. He didn’t have to try too hard—Markov’s next sentence nearly made him choke.

  “That Quarkon Federation shipment you plan to raid within the week.”

  He didn’t hide his surprise well enough. Markov chuckled.

  “Come now. Don’t look so shocked. People talk—especially when properly incentivized.”

  Luciano sighed, feigning the air of a child caught sneaking out past curfew.

  “Bah. And here I thought I could slip some Quarkon under your nose.”

  He glanced up again. The pod still hovered, silent, slow, like it was calling to him.

  “Raw Quarkon is volatile, even for you,” Markov said, tone unusually serious. “Are you tired of living?”

  Luciano met his gaze. Was that, a genuine concern? Or just another layer of the performance?

  “If you’re so worried about my well-being, then give me the refining formula,” he grumbled, shooting a bitter sidelong glance toward the magnate. “I’ll build a plant in my backyard. Keep it low-key.”

  His scowl returned. The Markovian family alone held the executive right to refine Quarkon, a law etched by the Founders to prevent civil war and preserve Westland’s fragile unity.

  Markov gave a mock apologetic shake of the head, almost like a father denying a child his request.

  “You know I can’t do that, even if I wanted to. The fallout would hurt us both.”

  Bullshit. That man only feared losing control.

  Luciano felt an urge to strangle him.

  Markov’s tone shifted, back to business.

  “The shipment, Luciano.”

  No preamble. No pretense. Always the same. When Markov wanted something, he carved straight to the bone.

  “There will be no raid,” Luciano said, waving his hand in exasperated dismissal. “The shipment is too large.”

  Markov stared him down, eyes unblinking.

  “There will be a raid.”

  Luciano stared. Had the man gone mad?

  “It’s ten vessels, Julian. Fifty thousand troops guarding it. My Shadows are warriors, not gods. Forget it. We’ll bleed out before we make a dent. Besides...” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not exactly low on Quarkon, are you?”

  Markov turned away, gaze drifting to the burning desert beyond the metropolis.

  “It’s not the Quarkon I want, dear Shadow. I want to rattle the hive. Give the pious fools something to fear.”

  Luciano tilted his head, curious now.

  “Even if I wanted to... how am I supposed to pull it off? I don’t have the numbers.”

  Markov turned back, his smile already victorious.

  Luciano’s stomach tightened. He was being played again.

  “I’ll provide the numbers,” Markov said matter-of-factly.

  Luciano blinked.

  “You want to use droids?”

  He frowned, already running calculations.

  “That’s a fool’s gamble, even for you.”

  Markov clasped his hands behind his back. That maddening confidence radiated again.

  “No droids,”

  he said, smiling.

  “You’ll have RHUs.”

  The magnate paused, eyes locking.

  “Twenty thousand of them.”

  Luciano scoffed. Almost laughed.

  That had to be a joke.

  But Julian Markov never joked, not with that expression.

  He meant it.

  Years of scheming kept his face composed, but his mind raced beneath the calm.

  A chill crept up his spine.

  The scale. The speed. Too soon. Too fast. He’d suspected progress, but this... this was monstrous.

  He’d expected prototypes. Maybe a few hundred.

  But not... an army.

  “You expect me to send my men in with trials?”

  he growled with displeasure.

  “I won’t throw them into a suicide mission. If you have those numbers, why do you need me?”

  Markov leaned back with a sigh, once more wearing that superior air.

  “The trials will surprise you. Think of them as your meat shield. Your Shadows will move behind the chaos and quietly take over four vessels. That should be enough to stir the Eastern Federation.”

  Luciano’s foot tapped as he considered the plan.

  Yes... that might work. So what if the corpses fell and baked in the desert sun?

  He could vanish with a ship or two. Still a hefty profit.

  But suspicion lingered.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “What are you after, Julian?”

  Markov’s eyes gleamed.

  “I want Westland to feel pressure. Real pressure. The citizens have lived too long in peace, too long forgetting the threat that waits just beyond the Claws of the World.”

  Luciano’s eyes widened.

  A forced invasion. A public crisis.

  It would justify the RHU program. Galvanize public opinion. Give Markov total control.

  That fool Ruppert had no idea what he was up against.

  “What a fantastic way to spend the day.”

  Armand Del Tenebre crouched atop a jagged boulder, muttering irony to himself. Don Luciano had tasked him with gathering intel on the cryogenic company and its logistics network. After infiltrating its warehouses and discovering they were nearly empty, he followed the final shipment to this area at the outskirt of the capital.

  He spent the rest of the day combing the mountains after tracking the transport vessel that vanished into a tunnel at their base to no avail. No exits. No movement since.

  Evening fell, and a haze cooled the air, dulling his vision. He switched to thermal sight. Good thing he did. Otherwise, he would have missed the faint pulse of heat bleeding through the trees. He smiled.

  Found you.

  A few minutes later, he was perched on the branch of a tall pine, crouched like a panther above its prey. Below, a massive exhaust shaft gaped open, its turbine spinning in slow, rhythmic groans as it exhaled warm air from the hidden structure beneath. The sheer scale of it made him lament in irritation.

  "This is going to be a long night."

  Thermal distortions above hinted at at least a dozen more like it.

  Was there a city under these mountains?

  He froze.

  He didn’t notice the two sentries at first. Not until the soft snap of a branch betrayed their presence. Frowning, he studied them. They looked human... but something in their movement was off. He zoomed in. No heat signature. Their bodies moved in rigid synchronicity. More like droids than men.

  “Walking Dead,”

  He spat, as a chill coiled up his spine. He pressed a gloved palm against the tree’s bark, grounding himself in something alive. Something holy. He steeled himself. Luciano needed answers. And those answers lay beyond the sentries, down the shaft.

  He activated his magnetic gloves. Timed his breath.

  Then dropped. Silently. Into the gap between the turbine’s sweep and the sentry's blind spot.

  Landing with a silent thud, he scanned the dimly lit tunnel ahead. Moving cautiously, he followed it until it split at a junction. Two arrows were etched into the wall, pointing in opposite directions. He squinted.

  “What’s this, then?”

  One read Warehouse 01, the other Assembly Hall. He veered toward Warehouse 01 first, he wasn’t particularly inclined to find out what Assembly Hall meant.

  “Looks like this is where they moved the cryo-pods... maybe where they infuse the AI into those frozen corpses.”

  The tunnel stretched endlessly. At last, it opened into a massive corridor lined with towering double doors. The first few stood ajar. He crept into the nearest one. Inside, row upon row of towering metal shelves vanished into the gloom. Cryo-pods filled every slot, hundreds. No, thousands

  “What is this? Heaven’s transit?”

  He scowled and stepped closer, peering through the viewport of a nearby pod. It was empty and warm. Where was its resident? He checked another. Empty. The next one. Still nothing. Despite the overwhelming number, the silence made it feel abandoned. A hollow grave. He backed into the corridor, instincts on edge.

  “Three... four... five.”

  Five warehouses stood open. If each held ten thousand cryo-pods, that meant fifty thousand corpses. Fifty thousand vessels, now gone. His stomach twisted. Visions crept into his mind, pale limbs, unblinking eyes, countless hands clawing, swarming, suffocating. A sharp hiss of Hydraulics yanked him back to reality, turning in time to spot the Light spilling from the sixth warehouse, followed by a gush of cool air leaking into the corridor. He flattened against the wall like a gecko, heart hammering against his ribs. A transport caddy hummed past below. Two personnel sat inside, chatting. Behind them, a long tail of cryo-pods followed on magnetic tethers, slithering like a funeral procession. Armand dropped silently onto the rear pod, inching forward toward the caddy. Then slid beneath the first in line. Flattened against its undercarriage. Breath held. Intent on listening, employees tended to talk about work at work, revealing valuable intel.

  “They’re severing more people today.”

  One of the workers grumbled.

  “I’m telling you, the more RHUs they wake up, the less we’re needed. Sooner or later, these dead things will take every job left.”

  His colleague scoffed at the idea.

  “Have you seen how they move? They’re worse than droids, no coordination.”

  Then sighed, relieved.

  “Still. Better them on the frontlines than forced conscripts. Besides, this could mean my brother gets to come home and live a peaceful life.”

  A thud followed, sounded like the first one had slammed a fist on the wheel, and the other retorted, as the caddy stabilized after veering of track briefly.

  “You’re na?ve, Ben! What happens when they run out of corpses? Huh? What if they start injecting AI into you next? Do you ever think of that? You sheep!”

  Ben laughed off the paranoia.

  “You’re being dramatic, Jack. For someone getting paid very well for this project, you sure do whine. The severance package is enough for two lifetimes. Look at Steve, who took his payout and threw a week-long party. If they let you go, you should do the same. Cheer up.”

  Armand clung beneath the pod, listening. His mind raced. Markov wasn’t just building an army. He was phasing out the human workforce. Cutting labor. Slashing wages. Replacing the living, it makes sense in the short term but in the long term economic collapse would follow, no workers, no wages, no spending. How could people survive? How could the... His thoughts shattered as the train rumbled past the intersection from earlier.

  “Damn.”

  He sprang off the pod and latched to the wall like a spider.

  No turning back now. It was time to find out what Assembly Hall meant. He sighed and reluctantly crept in its direction.

  A low thrum invaded his ears as he neared the end of the tunnel.

  What is that? It sounded like a machine pounding, flattening something? Armand inched closer, but the closer he got the more he felt dread gripping him, as the thrumming began to sound eerily like boots, stomping on ground. Hundreds of them. No, the closer he got it sounded like thousands of them.

  All his senses were on alert warning him to stop and leave. But his Don had given him command. And so, he crept on.

  The chamber beyond was a gargantuan cavern, the tunnel gave way to a spiraling slope that encircled the space. At its center, as he dreaded, indeed thousand upon thousands of RHU marched in unison.

  By the creator!

  Armand was not a pious man, but the sight made him pray. His body jerked backward, and retraced his step back, trembling. He had seen enough, it was time to go. No, he needed to escape.

  Not long after, he found himself perched on the jagged boulder again, judging that he was at a safe distance from the facility, he took out his communication device and dialed his Don’s detail.

  “Yes…”

  Armand felt the change in his Don since the meeting earlier that day. He tasted the caution in the tone, he couldn’t blame him, and the change will not improve after hearing his report.

  “Don, it's much worse than you anticipated, the scale is…”

  Armand froze, confused. Why was his voice not coming out? He felt cold, and it was not the night air. He could not move.

  His body was late in registering the sharp sting at the back of his neck, his senses did not register the freezing liquid coursing in his veins.

  “Armand? Armand!”

  Luciano’s voice crackled in his earpiece, strained and distant.

  Two figures emerged from the shadows, too stiff, too precise.

  “Infiltrator apprehended,”

  One said, approaching. Armand’s awareness screamed at him to run, but nothing moved.

  “Time of death: twenty-three hundred. Subject suitable for injection.”

  His fading mind reeled. No! He was not dead!

  “Mother, request to include this subject in today’s injection cycle.”

  Darkness swallowed him. A final breath, warm mist, sighed from his lips, the last thing seen through his thermal lens.

  Miles away, Luciano smashed his fist against the comms unit.

  "Damn it all… Armand.”

  His hand trembled, not from the pain, but from the dread. And the guilt.

  #