By the third week of March, the sea became the front line. The streets of Hong Kong were already quiet, almost reverent in their new order, but the waters beyond Victoria Harbour still shimmered with rebellion. The remnants of old power—smugglers, brokers, and underworld traders who refused to bow to the Caelum Syndicate—had fled to the only territory they still understood: the sea. The open water had always been their sanctuary. But not anymore.
The first sign came when a fleet of unregistered freighters attempted to sail under false flags—Taiwanese, Singaporean, Cambodian—each carrying concealed cargo meant for the black markets of Macau and Manila. On paper, they were harmless: food shipments, industrial materials, humanitarian supplies. In reality, their holds were filled with contraband—arms, narcotics, synthetic organs, gold. It was a desperate attempt to reopen trade lines Caelum had strangled in its rise. But desperation did not escape EIDEN's eyes.
From its servers deep within Ascension Tower, the AI monitored every satellite feed, every port manifest, every ping across the South China Sea. It saw the unregistered frequencies before they even reached Hong Kong's maritime borders. And when it spoke, its voice echoed through the comm systems of Atlas patrol vessels like a god whispering orders to its angels.
"Three targets confirmed. Course: south-southwest. Authorization for interdiction granted."
The response was mechanical precision. At night, the waters near Lamma Island shimmered with faint blue light as Caelum's stealth drones slid across the surface—silent, sleek, invisible to radar. They surrounded the ships before the crews even realized they'd been caught. Within seconds, the feed went black. EIDEN marked each vessel "neutralized" in its log.
Night after night, the same pattern repeated. The sea was no longer a border—it was a battlefield. Every attempt to move product, people, or information through the water ended the same way: with wreckage smoldering beneath the waves.
Then came the Lotus Dawn.
It was an old cargo freighter, once used by the Glorious Society before the takeover, now repurposed for what its crew thought was a discreet trade run. But Caelum's web had already marked it. The ship's engines were barely out of port when the first drone swarm descended—no warning, no sound, just the flash of metal wings cutting through the mist.
At precisely 4:32 a.m., a single missile strike hit the hull. The explosion tore through the dark like the birth of a second sun. The fireball illuminated the whole of Victoria Harbour, painting the water in violent crimson. The blast shattered windows along the coast, and for a brief, breathless moment, Hong Kong burned with the reflection of that red light.
The news called it a tragic accident involving hazardous materials. The press mourned the "loss of crew." The government issued condolences. But everyone else—the dockworkers, the brokers, the surviving remnants of the underworld—knew better. The Lotus Dawn had been a message.
Caelum controlled the sea now, and even the tides obeyed.
From the top floor of the Ascension Tower, Adrian watched the smoke rise over the horizon as dawn broke, his expression calm and unreadable. The city beneath him stirred slowly to life, unaware of what had transpired only hours before. Behind him, Marco stood, his jacket still damp from the rain, his face hardened by exhaustion.
"It's done," Marco said quietly. "That was the last freighter trying to breach the exclusion zone."
"Good," Adrian replied without turning. "EIDEN?"
"All unauthorized maritime activity has ceased," the AI responded through the speakers. Its voice was neither human nor cold—it was something between. "Projected reattempt probability in the next quarter: 2.4%. Risk of retaliation from the Golden Triangle: moderate."
Adrian finally looked away from the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Moderate means imminent. They'll retaliate. Fear always breeds stupidity."
Marco nodded grimly. "Our men in the Triangle say they're consolidating. The old cartels are meeting again—Golden Crescent, remnants of the Triads, even the last branch of the Glorious Society. They're talking about alliances. About reclaiming the sea."
Adrian smirked faintly. "They can talk. But words won't float."
He returned his gaze to the harbor. The fires had been extinguished, leaving only the faint shimmer of oil slicks drifting across the surface. Caelum patrol boats glided through the smoke like phantoms, recovering debris. "Double the patrols," he said. "If anything moves without our signal, it sinks."
"Yes, sir."
Hours later, as the city went about its day—trains running, markets opening, children walking to school—the waters remained quiet. Too quiet. Fishermen refused to cast their nets near the exclusion zones. Dockworkers crossed themselves before unloading crates marked with Caelum's sigil. Even the sea birds avoided those waters now, their instincts sensing what humans denied: that something unnatural ruled beneath the waves.
In a quiet government building near Admiralty, the Chief Executive met with her advisors behind closed doors. "This can't continue," one of them whispered, voice trembling. "They're acting outside of our jurisdiction."
"They are our jurisdiction," she replied bitterly. "Without Caelum, there'd be nothing left to govern. Do you want Mong Kok to burn again? Or the docks to explode like last month?"
Silence filled the room. They all knew she was right. The city's peace was an illusion—but it was an illusion that worked.
That same night, deep in the South China Sea, a meeting took place aboard a rusted freighter. The leaders of the surviving Golden Triangle factions had gathered in secrecy. Around a dim table, maps of trade routes were spread like open veins.
"Their reach is spreading too fast," one of them said, jabbing a finger at the map. "They've taken Hong Kong, cut through the ports, and now they're strangling our sea lanes."
"We can't fight machines," another hissed. "You've seen what they did to Lotus Dawn. Those weren't men who destroyed her—they were something else."
"They bleed all the same," a third snarled. "We just have to find where to cut."
The elder among them—a thin man with silver hair and a serpent tattoo curling around his neck—leaned back and exhaled slowly. "You don't fight ghosts head-on," he murmured. "You make them bleed from the shadows. Hit their brokers, their allies, their money."
A plan began to take shape in the dark. But none of them would live to see it unfold.
By dawn, that same freighter had vanished from radar. Hours later, a storm rolled across the sea, and when the waves calmed, there was no trace left—not of the ship, not of the men aboard, not even a signal from their distress beacon. It was as if the ocean itself had swallowed them whole.
Back in Hong Kong, the reports came to Adrian's desk. EIDEN projected a faint hologram of the ship's last known coordinates. "Confirmed termination," the AI announced. "Operation Neptune complete."
Marco let out a low whistle. "You didn't even give them a chance to breathe."
"They chose the sea," Adrian replied, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "We just made sure it chose us back."
He raised the glass toward the horizon, where the sun was rising behind the mist. "To order," he said softly. "And to the ones who thought chaos could win."
Below, the city carried on—unaware of how close it had come to another war. The newspapers printed headlines about trade recovery, economic growth, and new "maritime safety initiatives" led by Atlas PMC. The image of Caelum was now that of saviors. Efficient. Decisive. Necessary.
But in the hidden corners of the city—in the narrow alleys, in the smoky teahouses where old gangsters still whispered—the fear was palpable. No one dared move without permission. The sea had always been the final refuge of criminals, but now even that sanctuary belonged to Caelum.