Both Whitley and Weiss went quiet the moment Asher's question landed, exchanging a brief look before turning their attention to him again.
Seeing their expressions, Asher gave a small smile.
"Relax. I meant in general. Like if he got sick, became bedridden, or decided to retire out of nowhere." Even with the clarification, they didn't look entirely convinced.
Still, Weiss chose to answer.
"Well… technically, according to the company's internal bylaws, I'm in the line of succession. So under normal circumstances, I'd take over. But since I'm not of age yet, the board would have to appoint an interim CEO to manage the company alongside me until I'm legally eligible. That role would usually go to someone with significant equity—like our mother—but..." Her voice trailed off.
Whitley picked up where she left off, exhaling sharply.
"Our mother hasn't attended a board meeting in years. Even when it comes to shareholder votes, she just sends in a proxy. So if something really did happen to Father, the board would probably assign one of the senior executives to work alongside Weiss until she turns eighteen. If our father doesn't recover… that arrangement might last until she's old enough to take full control."
Asher's gaze drifted as he murmured, "Hmm, I see, so your mother, huh…"
Weiss and Whitley exchanged a look, both noticing how thoughtful he'd suddenly become.
"…So," Weiss said, narrowing her eyes slightly, "you want to tell us why you just asked a question that made it sound like you're plotting to kill our father?"
The bluntness nearly broke Asher's composure—he almost laughed out loud.
"For the record, no, I'm not planning to kill your father. That would be way too much work and way too many ripple effects. Honestly, it's just that lately, with all the government and corporate crackdowns on criminal networks, even Frostvale Enterprises hasn't been immune. I doubt the Schnee Dust Company will be either. I'm just running through contingencies in my head."
Whitley still didn't look completely convinced.
"Mm. Well, you're right about one thing—it'd be chaos."
Asher nodded slightly.
"Yeah. Definitely not something I'd want to deal with unless I had to. But anyway, let's set aside the hypotheticals for now. We've got something to celebrate, don't we?"
He turned with a grin.
"Whitley here is officially the newest member of Karatheon—or will be, very soon."
"It's still hard to believe you actually got Father to agree to this," Whitley said, his voice carrying the same disbelief he'd felt since that conversation.
"True," Weiss added with a shrug, "but then again, this is Asher we're talking about. He probably had the entire thing planned out from the moment he first invited you."
The easiest way to deal with Asher being… well, Asher, was to not question how he did certain things too much.
In response, Asher walked over to Weiss, placing one hand lightly at her waist as he said, "I honestly don't know why everyone keeps treating me like some kind of fortune-telling mastermind. I don't know everything—I just make really good guesses."
Weiss turned slightly to glance at him.
"I don't think you're a fortune teller," she said.
"But if your guesses are always right, doesn't that make you close enough?"
Whitley pointed in her direction and snapped his fingers.
"Exactly."
Asher let out a soft chuckle and gave a half-shrug.
"Alright, I'll take the title—for now. But I expect it to be revoked the moment I screw something up. In the meantime, it's your birthday, and like I said, I think that gives us more than enough reason to celebrate. Agreed?"
As he spoke, he casually draped his other arm over Whitley's shoulder, gently guiding the siblings down the hallway.
Whitley rolled his eyes but didn't pull away.
"Well… I suppose I've got some time before I have to give my official birthday speech."
Weiss followed up, "Yeah. And unless Father specifically calls for me, I don't technically have to be present at most of the formal events."
"Perfect. Then we've got plenty of time," Asher said, grinning. Neither of them bothered to argue.
But as they rounded the corner, Whitley added dryly, "Just so you know—if Father sees you holding my sister like that, you're probably going to lose your newest employee just as fast as you got him."
"Noted," Asher said, lips twitching.
"Duly noted."
=====================================•=====================================
April 19th, 2034
It was another month into the new year—and it marked a full year of unexpected, but undeniable, progress.
Earlier that month, on April 10th, Karatheon officially opened its doors.
The newly established tech company launched with a staff of 113 employees. Most were recruited through Liz's deep network of contacts across Mantle's various communities. The remainder were handpicked by Asher himself to fill roles that required more formal qualifications or specialized expertise.
One example was their legal department.
Since Liz was already serving as Asher's personal attorney—on top of her responsibilities as a litigation lawyer for Mantle's civil cases—she didn't have the bandwidth to take on a third role. And truthfully, finding another Liz in a place like Atlas was unlikely.
Still, that didn't mean she couldn't help.
Even with her complicated relationship with the city's upper class, Liz had earned a certain level of professional respect—especially among her peers in the legal field. She wasn't as embedded with them as she was with Mantle's activist communities, but she had enough rapport to help Asher identify legal professionals who were capable, pragmatic, and, most importantly, open-minded.
Asher's words to her during the vetting process were simple and to the point:
"We don't need saints or stone-cold analysts. We just need people willing to work here, people who can put their past biases aside. If they're even a little open, I'm confident Karatheon—and what we're building—will help shape the rest of their outlook."
He applied that same mindset across every hire he handled personally.
With all positions filled, the company began operations.
It had only been nine days since launch, and that period had served as a soft rollout—what Asher privately called a "live test." He used it to observe how things functioned without his direct involvement: how onboarding went, how people were introduced to his custom network systems, how well they understood the company's mission, and how they handled light production tasks.
Some departments needed more time than others.
For example, getting used to working alongside the Office Androids took a little adjustment. Thankfully, distinguishing the androids from human staff wasn't too difficult. They didn't have desks; their presence always felt slightly off, and the illusion was shattered completely the moment one of them spoke.
Still, all of that was surface-level. What Asher cared about most—what he watched closely—was productivity.
Everything—from the internal systems Asher personally developed to avoid relying on the bloated mix of third-party software most companies depended on, to the open spaces he insisted on building into the office's layout—had been designed with one goal in mind: maximum productivity.
That might have sounded overly analytical, maybe even robotic.
But Asher knew that productivity wasn't just about numbers on a screen or hours logged in a database. It hinged just as much on the intangible: a person's mindset, their emotional state and diet, and whether they felt like their work mattered. Even something as simple as being able to get up, walk to a window, and see the sky could influence how well someone performed.
That was exactly why Asher was currently walking through the second floor of the office building—specifically, the marketing department.
His expression was focused, eyes scanning the space as his footsteps echoed softly against the flooring.
The team was active, systems were humming along, and people were at their stations. Everything was moving. But it wasn't busy in the old-fashioned sense. The usual chaos—employees running from desk to desk, calling out across the floor, clutching files—was gone.
In its place was something more streamlined.
That was thanks to the Office Androids.
"Here is the list of holo-ads and billboards for the sector you were assigned," said one of the androids in its crisp, emotionless voice.
"I noticed you were reviewing local traffic volumes in that region, so I compiled the relevant metric data from the following sources. The top entries are ranked by projected performance for awareness campaigns." The android placed a slim stack of papers on a nearby desk before stepping away.
The employee sitting there blinked in surprise, caught completely off guard.
Not because of the delivery—but because he'd only requested that information less than an hour ago. He'd still been thinking about how to even start gathering traffic data.
"Oh wow… this is really thorough," the worker murmured as he took the stack of papers. He flipped through them briefly, eyes widening at how well-formatted the report was—even with the sheer amount of data packed inside.
It wasn't just a few traffic stats. GAIA, the Office Android, had conducted a full-scale sweep of every traffic zone within the assigned sector. On top of that, it had already run multiple sanity checks to verify data integrity and eliminate anomalies.
After a few seconds of silent reading, the employee asked, "Since I've got the physical copy now, would you mind sending me a digital version? I want to distribute it to the rest of the team."
"Of course," the android replied.
Its body went still for a moment, eyes flickering as its systems processed the request. A second later, a holographic display appeared above the worker's desk—an email had just arrived in his inbox.
He tapped it open, skimmed the contents, and smiled.
"This is perfect. Thanks."
"Glad to help," GAIA responded simply, then turned and resumed its tasks elsewhere on the floor.
Looks like they're still getting used to what the Office Androids can do. That's fine. It's better that they learn through direct experience instead of reading a manual. Once they get used to this workflow, they'll stop thinking in terms of how they're used to working—and start thinking in terms of what they're now capable of.
He didn't linger long, continuing his walk through the department without another word.
As Asher continued down the hall, he was quickly spotted by someone all too familiar—Flaye.
She was Karatheon's current Product Marketing Manager, a role she'd been given based on her strong background in organizing grassroots events and community initiatives across Mantle and beyond. Her ability to coordinate across fractured communities had made her stand out, even before Karatheon officially opened.
At the moment, she'd been leaning against a desk, mid-discussion with one of the team leads under her. The moment she saw Asher, though, she paused the conversation and walked over with purpose.
Asher greeted her with a casual smile.
"Sir," Flaye said with practiced professionalism.
The same confidence she'd shown when questioning him during the original facility tour was still there—but now it carried an undercurrent of respect. Not for his title—she wasn't the kind of person to be swayed by authority alone—but for the person behind it. That shift had come from direct experience, not corporate hierarchy.
"What's up?" Asher asked, slowing slightly.
"My team and I have been reviewing pre-launch marketing strategies for the heaters," Flaye said.
"We've come up with a few ideas—specifically, an Adopt-a-Block pilot program and a Fix-It Saturday visibility campaign. We've already scouted potential locations and believe both approaches could work, with the right timing and execution." Her pitch was steady, but Asher caught the faint hesitation behind her words.
He didn't let it throw him.
"Alright. Walk me through them."
Flaye nodded, taking the cue without hesitation.
"For the Adopt-a-Block pilot, the plan is to fully outfit two to three residential blocks in Mantle with our heating units—free installation, filters, maintenance coverage, and access to emergency response services. I've already got a short list of community hires—fast learners, good with tools, and willing to help with door-to-door outreach at no cost."
Asher didn't even pause before responding.
"Sounds expensive. If it flops, we've sunk resources into goodwill that might not convert. Word of mouth only travels so far—even if every household is satisfied."
"I know," Flaye said quickly.
"Which is why we'd support it with transparent data. We're thinking public dashboards—holographic terminals installed at each pilot block. They'd show live stats: average indoor temperatures compared to surrounding blocks, heater uptime, emergency call reduction, savings per household, and so on."
Asher's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And what's our exit plan? It's a lot easier to uninstall a public terminal than a wall-mounted heater—especially once people start forming expectations."
Flaye didn't miss a beat.
"We can keep it simple," Flaye said confidently.
"Time-box the program—thirty to sixty days per block. And of course, all participants would sign contracts that leave us room for legal recourse if anything goes sideways. This is a company, not a charity."
She and Asher came to a stop.
It was, by all measures, an unconventional marketing strategy—especially for Mantle. Generous to a fault, focused more on community visibility and trust-building than immediate ROI. In most companies, a pitch like that would've been dead on arrival.
But Flaye had a hunch. Asher didn't think like most company founders. That was why she'd risked bringing it to him in the first place.
Asher finally looked her way, locking eyes before responding.
"Thirty days," he said firmly.
"Hard cap per block. I want a waitlist system with clear eligibility rules, and I want some way of putting eyes on those neighborhoods—discreetly. That includes a fallback plan for security response if needed. No rattling the locals. No negative PR." His tone made it clear: this wasn't a rejection.
It was a green light—with conditions.
"Get all that to me within the week," he finished, already turning to walk off, "or drop the whole thing."
Flaye stood there stunned for a second, then her expression lit up as realization hit: he'd approved the project.
"Yes, sir!" She called after him, already pivoting back toward her desk with renewed energy.
Anyone watching might think he'd greenlit the pilot out of simple faith in his team—or trust in Flaye.
But that couldn't be further from the truth.
His mind was only halfway in the present. The other half was already thinking several moves ahead.
I wasn't sure if it would happen at all—but it did. Just like everything else. Five days after Karatheon officially began operations, the Nexus Space assimilated it almost instantly. The sync percentage surged straight to one hundred, leaving barely any delay or fragmentation.
And once that happened, the predictions followed. It was the same as what happened with Weiss and Frostvale Enterprises.
Asher could see the future of his own company.
Projected growth curves. Key milestones. Deal negotiations with major players. Whether or not they'd hit their mission objectives. The setbacks waiting along the way. Even products that hadn't been conceived yet.
It was the most complete roadmap a founder could ask for—etched into his mind like a blueprint carved from inevitability.
And what he'd just done was dodge the first pitfall on that path.
In the original timeline, Flaye had pitched a similar proposal. But Asher hadn't placed the right guardrails. There were no fixed time limits, no hard caps, and the metrics for success were too subjective. What started as a goodwill pilot spiraled into something else entirely—a de facto welfare program. One that drained resources, lacked oversight, and set expectations Karatheon couldn't afford to maintain.
Worse still, with no protective measures in place, opportunists began vandalizing the heating units just to get attention—or compensation. It quickly devolved into a public relations nightmare.
That timeline, Asher had managed to regain control eventually—but not before the media twisted the entire situation. Headlines accused Karatheon of "buying goodwill" or "exploiting the poor for clout." Worse still, the community itself began to fracture. Blocks not included in the pilot accused the company of favoritism and demanded their turn.
In the end, Karatheon looked overextended. Naïve. Unfit to scale.
But this time would be different.
Now he knew what to expect. And GAIA would monitor Flaye's project the moment it entered execution—flagging any bleeding of resources or warning signs of social backlash. Flaye and the others had good intentions—most of them were community organizers or activists at heart—but they still needed boundaries.
They needed freedom, yes.
But they also needed a firm hand.
Otherwise, Karatheon would burn itself out before it ever reached its true potential.
He knew mistakes would still happen. From his team. From Flaye. Even from himself. But no matter how many times those mistakes appeared—as ghosts from a future that had already failed—he would clean them up.
Again and again, Asher would correct the remnants of a timeline that no longer existed.
And when it was all over...
The Karatheon that remained would be flawless.
=====================================•=====================================
April 23rd, 2034
Inside his office on the highest floor of Atlas Academy, General Ironwood sat behind his desk, speaking with Asher, who stood calmly on the other side.
"All in all," Ironwood began, "crime is at an all-time low. I have to admit—I'm impressed. And despite some initial reservations, so are the precinct chiefs you've been coordinating with. We've received multiple reports of long-standing underground networks—groups we've been monitoring for years—completely falling apart."
Asher responded flatly, tone matter-of-fact.
"Of course they have. They're afraid of being targeted. Fear is the most universally understood message—especially when it comes in the form of violence. They've relied on it for years. Now the Insurgency is using it against them, and they're starting to realize that operating in the open just paints a bullseye on their backs."
Ironwood nodded.
"That's true. And it brings us to the current situation. Right now, we're down to just two major problems."
Asher didn't need to guess.
"Let me guess—public perception and media backlash?"
Ironwood exhaled through his nose.
"Exactly. I can handle the brass. High-ranking officers and department heads respond to numbers. As long as you keep delivering results, they're satisfied. If your Insurgents had slipped up even once, this entire operation would've collapsed. But so far, you've kept everything clean."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, voice tightening.
"But the public and the media? They're another matter. People are confused. Concerned. They're demanding answers, and the Council's beginning to ask questions too. Sooner or later, they'll want a full debrief—and that means I'll need to make a public statement."
Asher leaned forward, resting one hand on Ironwood's desk.
"So you'll need to go public with the Insurgency."
Ironwood met his gaze sharply.
"That's what it's coming to."
Asher's expression didn't change. "
In that case... how about I lend them to you?"
Ironwood froze, eyes narrowing.
"You're serious?"
Asher nodded.
"Of course. Even if the division itself stays classified, the existence of the Insurgency doesn't have to be. It would help ease public concern if they not only heard you address the situation directly, but also saw the people responsible for restoring order. Framed properly, it shows that everything's under control."
Ironwood stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Hmm... I suppose that could work."
Asher didn't push the point further.
Instead, he pivoted. "That aside, what about your second issue?"
Ironwood blinked, pulled from his thoughts.
"Ah. Right. The second one's more straightforward. It's been weeks since the raid, but we're still hitting walls trying to bring in the Maron Family from Mistral."
He exhaled sharply, frustration slipping into his tone.
"The extradition requests are being bounced through diplomatic channels, and their defense is pushing the angle that arresting a noble family requires a higher standard of legal review. Worse, they're claiming we exceeded our investigative scope—suggesting the evidence we collected was outside Atlas' jurisdiction."
Asher didn't look surprised.
"So they're hitting us with jurisdictional arguments and technicalities."
Ironwood nodded.
"Exactly. It's all delay tactics. We'll get through eventually, but the process could take months, maybe even years."
Asher was quiet for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered a new angle.
"Then we need to broaden the case. I highly doubt the Maron Family is the only group in Mistral exploiting Atlas's blind spots. If we can establish more links between Mistral's political or economic interests and criminal activity here in Atlas, it shifts the conversation from one arrest to a pattern of cross-border abuse."
He met Ironwood's eyes.
"If you give GAIA full access to the Atlas Military's database, it could trace those links faster than any task force. You'd have a systemic case instead of a one-off controversy."
Ironwood arched a brow.
"Didn't you already hack the academy's servers?"
Asher laughed softly and shook his head. "
The systems I accessed were just for hardware acceleration. I never breached anything classified. Not without permission, anyway."
"I see," Ironwood said, leaning back slightly.
"But still—I can't just give an AI unrestricted access to the entire Atlas Military database without a solid reason. I might trust you, Asher… but a lot of others don't. Right now, they're begrudgingly silent, but if I tried to push this through without justification, they'd raise hell."
Asher smiled, undeterred.
"Oh, but you already have a reason—remember?" He said casually.
"Most of the weapons and systems I've designed are built to run on specialized networks—networks that need to be installed on Atlas military servers to function properly. Which means, to finalize the contracts we've been negotiating, this was going to happen regardless."
He gave Ironwood a small shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"And conveniently, Karatheon is now fully operational. We just finished construction on several new factories."
The moment GAIA gained formal access to the Atlas Military's infrastructure, things like what happened with the Maron Family would never slip through the cracks again. Inconsistent reports, buried leads, logistical anomalies—they'd be flagged immediately.
But that wasn't even the full extent of it.
Atlas's law enforcement and military systems were deeply interconnected. They both relied on the same overarching data infrastructure—just separated by access tiers and departmental firewalls.
Which meant that the moment GAIA was granted access to one system, it had indirect visibility into the other.
And if Asher pushed just a little further—enough to get permission for GAIA to run basic scans and verification tasks across the shared database—then rooting out corruption wouldn't just be possible.
It would be inevitable.
Of course, Ironwood, being who he was, had already realized that. He was quiet now, weighing the implications.
Just like Asher, he wasn't blind to the state of Atlas as a kingdom. He'd spent years trying to hold its military together while the rest of the nation unraveled. He simply hadn't had the time, personnel, or operational bandwidth to address everything else.
Until now.
Now that Ironwood had the opportunity, it was clear the hesitation didn't come from uncertainty about what to do—but about what it would cost.
There were plenty of people perfectly content with the status quo. People who would fight tooth and nail against change, even if it was obviously effective. The kind of people who saw "useful" as a threat to their influence.
Seeing the conflict in Ironwood's expression, Asher took a breath and spoke.
"This could be a real opportunity for you, General. Up until now, you've had to project strength—maybe even harshness—to maintain order. Your military might be loyal, but let's be honest... most of your senior officers don't share your ideals. But if you authorize this move before going public—if you release the results of the crackdown alongside physical evidence of arrests—you'll win the public over. Visibly. Permanently."
As Headmaster of Atlas Academy, Ironwood already held one seat on the Atlas Council—a position not easily revoked. His role as General gave him another, granting him near-autonomous authority unless all other council members pushed back in unison.
And Asher was spelling it out clearly: if Ironwood gained the public's support, that second seat would be untouchable. The rest of the council wouldn't dare try to unseat him—not without risking their own reputations. After all, removing a man who's "fixing the kingdom" would look like a power grab, no matter how it was spun.
Yes, pushing forward with this would alienate some of his senior officers. But the common soldiers? The front-liners? Most of them already supported the crackdown. Unlike the public, they had access to operational reports. They knew what the Insurgency was actually doing.
And they agreed with it.
That meant removing Ironwood as General would become politically—and operationally—complicated. Even if someone wanted to, they'd need more than just a reason. They'd need a consensus.
As the silence stretched, Ironwood's fingers began tapping in a slow, rhythmic pattern against his desk. Thinking. Weighing.
Then, finally, the tapping stopped.
He looked up at Asher and gave a small, knowing smile.
"If I had to guess," he said, "when the time comes—when I make that public statement and release the Insurgency's performance data—you'll want me to mention your company's involvement?"
Asher's grin widened. He gave a slight shrug, casual but deliberate.
"Well, I wouldn't say no to free advertising."