Sector 9, Bloodline Quarter – Crimson Dagger Syndicate Zone
The sky above Sector 9 wasn't blue. It was soot-black, lined with crimson neon veins that flickered like a heartbeat. Auron had never stepped foot this deep into the Syndicate strongholds before. This wasn't where civilians wandered or gangs loitered. This was where monsters in suits made peace with death.
He wore his darkest coat—carbon fiber threading, matte finish. No brand. No markings. No weapons, by the syndicate's rules. Just a memory chip behind his right ear, and a small bone-conduction commlink to Kara, who waited exactly two zones away in a hijacked ice truck.
The building loomed ahead. Massive. Brutalist. Steel ribs curled around the outer frame like the spine of a buried dragon. They called it The Furnace. A fortress buried in heat, guarded by syndicate soldiers with eye implants and skin laced with scanner threads.
He was scanned twice. Walked through three reinforced doors. No one spoke. No smiles. The further in he walked, the more he felt the heat—not physical, but something older. A kind of pressure in the air. This wasn't just architecture. It was ritual.
They didn't fear death in here. They sold it.
At the end of a long corridor lit in red tubes, a massive circular room opened. A high ceiling, domed and blackened with old fire damage. At its center was an obsidian table shaped like a crescent. Thirteen chairs. Twelve filled. One empty, directly across from the most dangerous man in Nexora.
Auron stepped forward, silent.
"You're early," said the man in the center.
He didn't wear a mask, but he didn't need one. The Voice of Crimson Dagger was a ghost with skin. White hair tied tight, a face lined with faded tattoos. Eyes cybernetic—burning faintly gold.
"I wanted to show respect," Auron replied.
The Voice chuckled. "Then sit."
---
One of the chairs scoffed, a woman with slick hair and a silver blade resting across her knees.
"Is this the one who took out Reman's archive?" she muttered. "Thought he'd be taller."
Auron said nothing.
Another man, bulkier, leaned forward. "You walked into the fire. I respect that. But walking out is a different matter."
The Voice raised a hand. The room went still.
"You've caused noise, boy. Big noise. Press leaks. Corrupt funds rerouted. High-tier officials exposed. And all while remaining invisible."
"That was the point," Auron replied.
"But it affected us," said another voice from the dark—sharp, old, with a rasp like broken glass. "Every time power shifts, we bleed money. You owe."
"I owe no one," Auron said.
Someone stood.
Veyna, they called her. Known for bathing her blades in ink to mask blood trails. She was deadly. And she hated arrogance.
"We could skin you now," she said. "Split your ghost-code and sell it to Brokers across seven cities. You think the Furnace lets children play with fire?"
"I think," Auron said carefully, "that you'd already done it if you could."
He slid a small drive across the table.
The Voice caught it.
"What's this?"
"Cleaned banking data. Offshore. Nine-point-four million. All traced to Reman. You want it? It's yours. I kept nothing. But there's more where that came from."
"More?"
"I mapped ten figures connected to Harid in the past six months. Political. Industrial. Even one of your own."
Silence.
The Voice inserted the drive into the port on his wrist. A silent flicker. Eyes glowed red, processing.
Then:
"He's not bluffing."
One of the others snarled. "So what? You want immunity?"
"I want a deal," Auron replied. "Thirty percent of all illegal traffic that touches my hands. You get a cut, I stay off your leash. I don't sell guns, don't recruit from your ranks. You don't touch me, I don't break you."
A long pause.
Then the Voice laughed.
A quiet, amused sound. "And what if I say no?"
"I have three vaults of data I haven't leaked yet. Enough to bring fire to five sectors. If I die, it gets dumped. If I vanish, it still gets dumped. The city burns either way."
"You're threatening us?"
"I'm offering balance."
Veyna grinned. "He's clever. Reckless. I like him."
The Voice leaned back. "Thirty percent. No weapons. You stay in Sector 7 and 8. If you expand, you inform us. One breach, we erase you."
"Agreed."
"You will now be known by your true ghost name."
Auron blinked. "Which is?"
The Voice's eyes flashed again.
"Phantom Seed."
---
Three Hours Later – Sector 7 Perimeter
The hovercar was cold. Kara had the wheel. Riva sat in the backseat, playing with a projection cube.
"How did it go?" Kara asked.
"They didn't kill me."
"Sounds like it went well."
He handed her a token.
"What's this?"
"Access sigil. We're part of the network now. Crimson Dagger just added me as a node. We're a spider inside a bigger web."
She drove in silence for a moment.
"Was it worth it?"
Auron looked back at Riva, her face glowing under the cube's light.
"Yes."
---
VaultPod – 2:30 AM
Auron lay in the lower chamber, staring at the ceiling. The hum of solar converters echoed above.
Riva tiptoed in, a blanket dragging behind her.
"Scary dreams?" he asked.
"No. Just... cold."
He scooted aside. She curled beside him, warm and quiet.
"She said you'd die today."
"Who said that?"
"The girl with the blue eyes."
"Kara?"
Riva shook her head. "No. The one in my dream. She looked like me. But older."
His body went still.
Riva slept fast.
He didn't.
---
Dawn – CrowJaw's Lab
CrowJaw didn't look up from his screens.
"You've been pinged again."
"Who?"
"Tag traced back to something called 'Black Index'. Deep-web fragment. Obscure. Cold."
"User?"
"Lucien Kael."
Auron froze.
He'd seen the name before. Buried in system logs. Connected to firestorms in three cities. Vanished four years ago. Supposedly dead.
"He wants a meeting," CrowJaw said. "But no location. No time. Just coordinates."
"Send it."
---
Midweek – Auron's Private Training Room
He ran simulations. Combat types. Urban entries. Data extractions. Kara watched, arms crossed.
"You're pushing too hard."
"I'm preparing."
"For what?"
"For ghosts."
---
Sector 3 – Contact Point
Coordinates led him to an abandoned metro station. Rats and old propaganda posters.
In the center stood a boy. No older than sixteen. Holding a red-glass tablet.
"You're late," he said.
"You're not Lucien."
"No. But he sent you this."
He handed over a single data stick.
One word written on it:
"ORIGIN"
---
Back at the VaultPod
Auron inserted the drive. Files unlocked.
It wasn't just about Lucien. It was about the system itself.
Where it came from. Why certain people received it. And how it was—originally—a government experiment to create autonomous agents who could overwrite global economies.
System Users weren't accidents.
They were seeded.
And now someone wanted those seeds to burn.
Auron sat back.
Everything was about to change.