Chapter 17: The First Conflict
The alarm buzzed gently in the background, its hum blending with the faint pulse of the ventilation system. Chris lay still for a moment, disoriented not by exhaustion, but by the weight of what lay ahead. Six months ago he'd been cleaning VR pods at Wall Pod. Now he sat at the centre of the Republic's IP bureaucracy, one anomaly away from questions he couldn't answer.
His old apartment had never been quiet. There had always been some reminder of decay—the rattle of a loose vent cover, the squeal of pipes fighting against corrosion, the persistent drone of neighbours arguing through walls too thin to shield a secret.
Here there was none of that.
The ceiling above him was smooth and pale, not blotched with mold or scarred by water leaks. The mattress adjusted minutely to his shifting weight, its firmness balanced by a responsiveness he had never experienced before. The air carried no damp, no mildew, no trace of cleaning chemicals hastily applied to mask rot. It smelled neutral, almost antiseptic, and in its simplicity it felt alien.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a while, rubbing his face with both hands. It had been years since he had woken in a space that didn't feel like a compromise, years since he had felt what normal might be in a country that made normal the reward for belonging.
This wasn't luxury. It wasn't opulence. It was what life was supposed to be. And that alone unsettled him.
Transit
The city outside was already awake, trams gliding across sky rails like strands of polished silver weaving through the urban fabric. Their movement was fluid, like arteries carrying lifeblood. Chris boarded without difficulty. His new access card glowed faintly against the scanner and, for the first time, the system did not hesitate before recognizing him.
He moved aside and took a seat by the window. Behind him, two foreign drifters attempted to board with nothing more than cash vouchers and bluff confidence. Within seconds, transit officers stepped forward. Their words were polite but cold, and in less than a minute the men were escorted away. No registry, no bank account, no proof of belonging—no access.
Chris exhaled, watching the rails bend and the towers blur past. The truth of the Republic struck him harder than before. Effort without proof was meaningless. Talent without affiliation was irrelevant. You either bore the mark of recognition through clan, federal bank, or registry, or you weren't simply excluded. You were invisible.
For the first time, he wasn't.
Arrival at Oversight
The Department of IP Oversight did not display grandeur in the way clan headquarters did. It rose from the ground as a sheer structure of steel and glass, its banners trimmed in crimson and ivory, the rising sun of Dawn stitched into the fabric with threads so fine they caught the light at every angle. The building stood like a declaration of order in a city that otherwise pulsed with colour and noise.
Inside, the atmosphere was colder. The air was sharp, filtered to sterility. The temperature was precise, almost surgical, as though the environment itself was designed to permit no waste. Workers passed with silent efficiency: coats pressed flat, shoes polished, tablets glowing in their hands. No chatter, no distractions, just the rhythm of a machine built from people.
Waiting at the edge of the corridor was a man of compact frame, his posture upright but not performative. His hair was combed flat, his glasses squared, his coat grey and unadorned. There was no emblem stitched to his chest—no clan allegiance displayed—only the neutrality of one who had spent decades serving systems older than ambition.
"To room 3B," he said simply, turning at once.
Chris fell into step. He adjusted his stride instinctively, copying the clipped pace, mirroring the man's posture. It wasn't submission. It was survival. The best way to move through the Republic's institutions was not to stand out, but to blend seamlessly into their flow.
"I'm Fredrick Nguyen," the man said as they walked, his tone clipped, controlled, but not hostile. "Senior intake clerk. During probation, you report to me."
Chris gave a small nod. He had learned enough by now to know that silence was often safer than words.
The chamber door sealed with a mechanical hiss, cutting away the corridor behind them. The room itself was stripped bare of warmth. No wireless signals bled through. No clan emblems glowed from the walls. These chambers were hardwired directly into the Republic's Core, insulated against intrusion. Here, even the great Houses bent their heads.
At the table sat the Yang twins. Sarah and Rob.
Their posture was tight, eyes fixed low, bodies stiff with restraint. Standing beside them was a woman in her early forties, her robes of pale yellow arranged without flaw, her posture straight as a blade. Along her collarbone shimmered a stylized bamboo stalk in metallic thread—the emblem of her House, authority woven directly into fabric.
Fredrick gestured with a slight incline of his head. "Fredrick Nguyen. IP Oversight. This is Chris Xiong, junior clerk under review."
The woman returned the nod, her voice clear and measured. "Helen Yang. Coordinator under the Lady's household. These are Robert and Sarah Yang, co-developers of the simulation asset submitted for review."
Chris inclined his head slightly in turn. His eyes flickered once toward Sarah's, catching them for a brief moment before she looked away. A shadow of recognition passed between them—the memory of the arcade floor, a demo, a moment before chaos.
On the table lay the hardware.
An obsolete semi-VR core, battered and matte with age, its casing scuffed from decades of handling. Beside it sat a black prism no larger than a clenched fist, its surfaces unblemished, its hum faint but steady. The piggyback.
Chris felt his chest tighten. The same enhancement he'd triggered at Wall Pod, at the demo plaza. But this time, something had called him "Master"—a recognition that chilled him more than any accusation. This wasn't random system failure. This was technology that somehow knew him.
Fredrick's stylus tapped once against the desk reader, his voice as flat as steel. "This is not a compliant submission. The core is unverified. The piggyback lacks Republic-grade transmission protocols. This is raw code, unsupported."
Helen did not blink. "Legacy cores remain permissible under the Cross-Clan Inheritance Clause. The piggyback mediates the signal. Its output is stable. We submit both for inspection."
Fredrick's eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. "You brought the original because you couldn't replicate it."
Helen's reply was calm, unflinching. "We brought it because it still works."
Chris leaned forward, studying the asymmetry of the rig. The prism was newer, cleaner, but its wiring betrayed its nature. It was not passive. It was pulling, probing, crawling through the old machine with each pulse. If this device could somehow amplify or trigger the anomalies he'd experienced, then its implications went far beyond House politics.
"This isn't mediation," Chris said, his voice low, pitched just beneath the auto-log threshold. "It's been hacked. The piggyback isn't translating—it's crawling the semi-VR core, pulling state tables into itself and caching them. That's why the core still has to sit here. It isn't running the show. It's just the ignition key."
The twins stiffened. Rob froze mid-motion. Sarah's breath caught.
Fredrick gave Chris the smallest glance, the first flicker of approval. "Which makes it non-compliant," he said flatly. "A translator doesn't crawl. This is a debugger, a live extractor. And that makes it dangerous."
Helen's silence said enough.
Chris's eyes lingered on the prism. He could almost feel the hum of its pull, the hunger built into its design. The same impossible enhancement that had shattered every VR system he'd touched. If it could extract, then it could hold, even if only for moments. And if it could hold, then it could show him what was still buried in the relic.
Don't just translate it, he thought, intent clear. Pull it out. Cache it. Show me what's hidden inside.
His fingers brushed the prism.
The surge hit instantly.
White-hot pressure burst behind his eyes, his vision fracturing into shards. His chest locked, lungs dragging air down as though gravity itself had shifted.
Then came the voice.
[Initializing...] [Anomalous override detected] [Modifying scenario] [Enjoy your experience, Master.]
His hand snapped back, but the pain clung like fire in his spine, echoing through his skull. The colours of the room sharpened too harshly. Sounds bent, moving a fraction too fast.
The piggyback hummed low, its code rewriting itself silently, no sparks, no display—only the quiet remapping of its own identity.
Chris forced his breathing steady, his hand trembling faintly as he clenched it in his lap. Across the table, the twins kept their eyes down.
Fredrick tapped his stylus again, his tone cold. "Ten minutes. We resume after."
He left. Chris followed, his stride uneven. The door sealed with a hiss.
Helen's Move
Helen studied the twins in silence for a moment before speaking. "Sarah. You know that boy?"
Sarah hesitated. "A little. From the testing floor."
"Just a little?"
"We barely spoke. He played the build once. Then left."
Helen's eyes lingered. "And what do you think of him?"
Sarah faltered. "Quiet. Strange."
"But you noticed something. He didn't flinch until he touched the module. That wasn't chance."
Rob shifted uncomfortably. "This isn't necessary."
Helen ignored him, her voice firm, but not unkind. "Fredrick is predictable. He is a man of rules. The boy is not. That makes him leverage. But approach carefully—after what happened with the child at your demonstration, any misstep reflects on all of us."
Sarah's discomfort showed plainly. "I don't know if I want to."
"You will if you care about the IP," Helen said, her gaze tightening. "I've already spent favors to place Fredrick here. Don't waste them."
Coffee
Fredrick stopped at a vending console outside, his tone dry and cutting. "You look like hell. Go get some fresh air or something. Maybe coffee. Then come meet me back here in ten minutes."
Chris rubbed at his temples, the ache behind his eyes pulsing with every step.
The lounge was almost empty, save for Sarah by the counter, holding two cups.
She turned when he entered. "Chris, right?"
He nodded cautiously.
"I thought you might want one," she said, extending the cup. "You look like you could use it."
He hesitated, then accepted. The warmth of the cup grounded him, its bitter scent cutting through the haze in his head.
"First day?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Yeah," Chris said, his voice rougher than intended.
She smiled faintly, but her expression carried genuine distress. "Look, I know this is awkward timing. After what happened with that child during our demonstration, after everything people are saying about our work..." She paused, real fear flickering across her face. "You're the first person who looked at our project and saw the technical problems instead of just the political mess. That means something to me."
Chris studied her carefully. The words carried weight—desperation wrapped in hope, perhaps even fear.
"Would you want to get coffee sometime? When this isn't hanging over everything?" She added quickly, "Not as a bribe. Just as two people who understand what we were actually trying to build."
Chris looked at her for a long moment before answering. "I'll think about it. We'll talk later."
Judgment
Chris strode back to room 3B. Fredrick was already there, leaning against the wall with the air of a man who had seen too much to be impressed by anything.
"Did the coffee help?" he asked dryly.
Chris gave a small nod.
"Good. Then tell me—what's your judgment?" Fredrick's tone was casual, but it carried weight.
Chris drew a slow breath, forcing himself to think like an engineer rather than someone with secrets to hide. The technical reality was clear, even if its implications terrified him. "The legacy core doesn't matter. It's a husk. The piggyback is the IP. It runs the experience on its own, local only. It doesn't need broadcast compliance."
Fredrick tilted his head. "So you'd clear it, and draw the Bear's ire?"
"No," Chris said firmly. "Only the software. Not the hardware. If they want Deep VR access, they go through the House of the Bear and get the rights properly. But if they just want to register the idea as an IP, there's little harm in allowing that. The line is clear."
Fredrick's stylus tapped once. A faint smile crossed his lips, almost hidden. "You pick up quickly. Good answer."
The doors hissed open. "Let's wrap this up."
Back in room 3B, the judgment was delivered with the cold efficiency of bureaucracy. The Yang twins received their partial victory—software registration approved, hardware restrictions maintained. Helen accepted the compromise with practiced grace, knowing it was more than they'd dared hope for given the political climate.
As the session concluded and the paperwork was filed, Chris felt the weight of individual decisions rippling outward into something larger. This wasn't just about IP compliance. This was about power, control, and the careful balance that kept the Republic's competing interests from tearing each other apart.
The twins gathered their equipment, relief and disappointment warring in their expressions. Sarah caught Chris's eye once more as they prepared to leave, her earlier invitation hanging between them like an unspoken question.
But as Chris watched them go, he couldn't shake the feeling that this small bureaucratic victory was just the first move in a much larger game—one where the stakes extended far beyond patent law and regulatory compliance.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed with a message. The outside world was still turning, still demanding his attention, still pulling him toward choices he wasn't ready to make.
For now, though, he had survived his first day at the centre of the Republic's machinery. Whether he could survive what came next remained to be seen.