Neo-Atlantis was a city that never slept, never blinked, and never forgave. Its skyline glowed like a god's motherboard, neon arteries pumping synthetic life through megastructures that scraped the clouds. Down below, where light became a luxury and the air thickened with grease and desperation, was where Kael Drayven carved out his kingdom.
He wasn't a king, not officially. But here in District 88—the Concrete Gutter—they called him "The Slum Prince."
Kael sat cross-legged on a rusted scaffold twenty floors above ground level, a battered neural visor over his eyes and a worn datablade clutched in one hand. His long black coat fluttered with the occasional updraft from a vent shaft below. Beneath the visor, his eyes darted back and forth, scanning data lines only he could see.
"Hurry up," hissed a voice in his earpiece. "Firewall's clocking you. If the CorpSec wakes up, we're fried."
Kael smirked. "Relax, Ivy. You panic too early and celebrate too late."
"You're robbing a shell corporation of OrvellTech. That's not pickpocketing a candy bot. They'll crucify you on a plasma wall if they trace—"
"I know," he interrupted, fingers flying across his wrist console. "Which is why I'm threading the data spike manually. Their checksum loop's sloppy."
Two seconds of silence.
Then: ping.
Kael's grin widened. "And that's three million credits freshly laundered and relocated."
"Holy hell…" Ivy's voice softened to a whisper. "You actually did it."
Kael yanked off the visor. "Doubt me again and I'll reroute your e-wallet to a sexbot startup."
He turned and started scaling down the scaffold. The distant rumble of hovercraft and the flash of corporate drones passing overhead were background noise—constant, dull, and easily ignored after years in the 88th.
Down in the alley, Ivy waited. Short, quick, and always wrapped in a dusty cloak like a glitching Jawa from old Earth vids, she tossed him a thermal drink as he dropped beside her.
"We split?" she asked.
"Seventy-thirty," he said, sipping. "You panicked. Loses you points."
She scowled. "You arrogant ass."
"Slum prince, thank you very much."
Their banter was cut short by a sound that didn't belong: boots. Heavy ones. Marching.
Kael's instincts flared. He grabbed Ivy's wrist and yanked her into a service hatch just as three dark-armored figures strode into the alley—tall, faceless, armed.
"Not CorpSec," Ivy whispered. "Wrong sigils."
Kael studied them. No ID bands. No traceable signals. Private military, maybe. Mercs. Hired elite.
His heart slowed. Not with fear. With calculation.
"Looking for someone?" he muttered.
As if on cue, one of the figures spoke.
"Kael Drayven. Come with us."
He didn't answer. Just stared, quietly running options. Ivy's hand hovered near her pulse-gun. His fingers inched toward the shockblade holstered behind his belt.
"No weapons," the figure said. "You'll want to hear this. It's about your father."
Kael froze.
"My what?"
The lead figure took off their helmet. A woman with steel-gray eyes and a face that looked like it had never lost a fight.
"Your father. Jarek Drayven. Founder of Drayven Industries. Dead as of twenty-one hours ago. You're next in line."
Kael blinked.
Then laughed. "You're out of your damn mind."
"We're not here for debate," she said flatly. "We're here to escort you to the Executor's Citadel. You've been named heir to the Dynasty Protocol."
Ivy swore under her breath.
Kael just frowned. "That's… impossible. Drayven Industries runs three nations. I'm a slum hacker. I've never even been registered under that name."
"Doesn't matter. Jarek's final will identified you by blood and genechain. You match. Fully."
A pause.
Then Kael said, "If this is a setup, it's a damn elaborate one."
The woman extended a sealed datapad. On it: a video message. Timestamped. Verified. Encrypted with a key only Kael could unlock.
He tapped it with his thumb. The screen flickered.
Then an old man's face appeared—sharpened with age and cold intelligence.
"My son. If you're seeing this, I'm dead. And my enemies are celebrating."
Kael's stomach tightened.
Jarek Drayven looked at him like he knew everything already.
"You were hidden for your safety. But now the world will need you to rise. The Dynasty Protocol is more than a company. It's the most powerful system ever devised. And it is yours now. Unless you're too much of a coward to take it."
The screen went black.
Kael stared at it, breathing hard. Ivy looked like she'd just seen a ghost.
"What the hell is the Dynasty Protocol?" she whispered.
The woman holstered her rifle. "It's the key to everything."
Kael didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he sat in a private hovercraft that sliced through the upper stratosphere, headed for a sector of Neo-Atlantis no slum dweller ever saw.
From the windows, he saw flying arcologies shaped like petals, anti-gravity farms floating in midair, railguns mounted on corporate towers.
This was the "Tier One" zone. The world of CEOs, heirs, dynasties.
"Drink?" the woman offered, now dressed in a gray suit and seated across from him.
He eyed the whiskey but refused. "Name?"
"Executor Lyra Wren. I was your father's chief enforcer. Now I'm yours—if you pass."
"Pass what?"
She leaned forward. "You've inherited his position. But not his power. That requires unlocking the Protocol. Which is locked to biometric acceptance and performance-based tests. Fail them, and control reverts to the Board."
"What happens if I win?"
"You become the richest man alive. And maybe the most dangerous."
The Executor's Citadel wasn't a building. It was a floating island—a stealth fortress suspended by grav-drives and hidden from all but a select satellite network.
Kael walked its obsidian halls with a thousand questions in his head.
Each corridor was filled with arcane technology, genetic vaults, weapon prototypes, AI interfaces. It felt less like a corporation and more like a god's war temple.
Finally, he was led into the Core Chamber.
Inside: a black pillar with glowing veins of blue light. At its base, a biometric throne.
"Sit," Lyra instructed.
Kael hesitated. Then did.
The room went dark.
Welcome, Kael Drayven.The Dynasty Protocol has been awaiting your return.
The voice wasn't robotic. It was… ancient. Layered. Like a chorus from another world.
Kael's veins burned. Light wrapped around him like serpents.
Test One: Strategic Viability.Simulating hostile takeover scenario.
The floor dissolved beneath him.
He was no longer in the chamber.
He was in a war room. Hundreds of digital panels. Newsfeeds. Market stocks. Espionage reports. All of them flashing.
Kael barely had time to react before a timer started counting down.
Objective: Outmaneuver a multi-corporation siege on Drayven subsidiaries. Time limit: 60 minutes.
He blinked.
Then he grinned.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's play."
Over the next hour, Kael operated like a possessed demon.
He launched dummy companies to absorb attacks. Used shell AI to leak scandals into media cycles. Triggered a cascade collapse of rival currencies. Recalled debts. Weaponized PR.
Every move felt like dancing on a razor's edge—but he'd lived his whole life on one.
When the timer hit zero, he leaned back, exhausted.
Result: Success. Threat neutralized. 87% optimization.
Performance: Exceptional.
The chamber reformed around him.
Lyra stood there, arms crossed.
"Well?" she asked.
Kael stood, sweat soaking his collar.
"I want my inheritance."
Lyra smiled coldly. "You've just taken the first step. But remember—inheritance here means more enemies than allies. You've now entered a world where everyone wants you dead."
Kael looked at the glowing pillar behind him.
The Dynasty Protocol pulsed like a heartbeat.
He smirked.
"Good," he said. "I'd be disappointed if it were easy."