[Date: August 5, 980 GD. Time: 11:15 AM (2 hours post-negotiation with Solstice). Location: The Nexus Hall -- Private Command Room.]
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling crystal wall of the Nexus Hall, pressing my forehead hard against the cold surface. Outside, Zero Point City sprawled like a giant, dirty circuit board, shrouded in copper-colored morning fog.
My breath left a warm mist on the glass—a vital sign that my body systems were working normally. Too normally.
Just an hour ago, in the adjacent medical room, I had completed the most intimate and dangerous transaction of my life: absorbing the "fever" from Solstice Burn.
It didn't feel like being healed. It felt like an overdose.
That girl's energy was pure, wild, and dense. It wasn't just ordinary fire heat; it was military-grade Valdorian Mana—a nuclear reactor compressed for years inside her body. Now, its residual heat swirled in my blood like a lethal dose of caffeine, making my heart beat with an aggressive staccato rhythm.
My Aqua circuits, usually screaming with hunger, were now silent, sated. My Gale circuits spun fast, pumping hot steam throughout my body. My brain raced faster than usual. Colors looked sharper. The hum of the servers in this room sounded like a grand orchestral piece.
This euphoria was dangerous. I felt invincible. I felt like I could descend to Sector-U (Under-City) right now, tear up the pavement with my bare hands, and devour the entire rat population there single-handedly without any troops.
I glanced at my wrist. The message from The Weaver that came in two nights ago—when I was freezing after the Pentad meeting—was still stored there, blinking slowly as if mocking my sanity.
[WEAVER: You're cold in your ivory tower, Wynter. Politics is cold. Conflict is hot. Down there... there's the fire you seek. Rebellion isn't just a security issue. It's your fuel.]
I read that sentence over and over. "Fuel."
That night, while dying from the cold on Valdor's streets, I had almost lost my moral compass. I thought of going down there not as a leader bringing solutions, but as a predator seeking prey to devour. Weaver knew it. He gave me bait. He wanted me to become a monster addicted to conflict, to make war my source of nutrition.
"Feast..." I whispered in disgust at my own reflection in the glass. The reflection seemed to be sneering, its eyes glowing red, pupils dilated with adrenaline. "I seriously considered making a civil war my breakfast menu."
A wave of nausea hit me. Not physical nausea, but moral nausea. If I went down there in this "hungry" and "intoxicated" mental state, I wouldn't be conducting pacification. I would be conducting a massacre. I would suck the life out of every rebel until they turned to dust, just because it felt good. And that would make me as bad as Titus—or worse, because I would enjoy it.
"No," I decided, clenching my now warm and powerful fist. A thin wisp of hot steam escaped from between my fingers. "I won't eat recklessly. I will choose my menu with a silver spoon and fork."
I closed my eyes briefly, forcing a regular breathing rhythm to suppress the wild energy surge from Solstice. Use this heat to think, Wynter. Not to burn.
I turned to face the round strategy table in the center of the room. My team had gathered.
They looked at me with varied expressions, but one thing was the same: Confusion.
They were used to seeing a pale, shivering Grand Praetor wrapped in thick blankets, sipping hot coffee with trembling hands. But this morning? That thick blanket was lying on the floor. The coffee on my desk was cold and untouched. And I stood upright, my cheeks healthily flushed, my eyes sharp without any signs of fatigue.
"Praetor?" Rian called out hesitantly. He hugged his tablet like a shield, his eyes squinting behind thick glasses. "I've lowered the room temperature to 18 degrees as per your standard, but... you're sweating?"
"I don't need cooling today, Rian. Turn off the AC," I commanded. My voice came out stronger, more resonant than usual.
Kara, who was sitting on the table spinning her command knife, stopped moving. She stared at me like a wolf scenting fresh blood. "You look... different, Boss. You look like you just swallowed a live grenade and enjoyed it."
"I just recharged," I answered curtly, glancing towards the closed medical door where Solstice was sleeping. "And now I have the energy to deal with our real problem."
I walked towards the round strategy table in the center of the room. With one firm sweep of my hand—so firm that my fingertips left faint trails of smoke in the air—I activated the holotable.
A three-dimensional map of Zero Point City appeared. I immediately shifted the view downwards, piercing through the street layers, through the concrete foundations, down to the network of pipes and bunkers pulsing red in the depths.
"Heaven has spoken," I said, my voice sharp and fast, fueled by Solstice's adrenaline. "The Joint Commission is demanding 'Pacification'. They've given us seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours before they decide we're incompetent and send an Orbital Strike to clean out that sewer with us in it."
I pointed to the red dots scattered across the Under-City map.
"They want these logistics lanes clear. They want these rats quiet. And I..." I clenched my fist, feeling the residual heat sizzling in my palm. "...I want to go down there right now. We won't wait for an invitation. We won't send diplomats. We will descend into the U-Sector this very morning, kick down their front door, and remind them who holds the food chain in this city."
"Descend... now?" repeated Rian, his face pale. "You mean, physically? Without preparation? Without a Valdor legion escort?"
"We are her escorts, Rian! But we won't go down alone like tourists," I cut in, my voice echoing with authority. I patted my own chest, feeling the hot reactor inside pulse wildly, demanding release. "I am the Grand Praetor. I hold the keys to the City Defense Grid. I have Kara as the spearhead. I have Solstice as walking artillery."
I pointed towards the blinking red holographic map.
"We won't infiltrate. We will launch a Total Invasion. I will activate Code Red. I will deploy all the Guardian Golems from the Neutral Sector storage vaults. I will flood those rat tunnels with iron, fire, and absolute authority. We will burn their nest until they have no choice but to crawl out and kiss my feet."
"No!" Rian suddenly yelled.
It startled everyone. Rian, the timid secretary, rarely raised his voice. But this time, he stepped forward, slamming his tablet hard on the table. His face was deathly pale, not from fear of me, but from horror at the logistical disaster I had just described.
"With all due respect, Praetor, you are drunk on energy!" Rian said quickly, his breath hurried. "You want to send Guardian Golems down there? Those are three-meter-wide pipe tunnels! The Golems will get stuck at the first turn! You're not planning a strategy, you're planning the most expensive traffic jam in history!"
Rian tapped the holographic map with his trembling finger, bringing up complex topographical data.
"Look at the terrain, Sir! It's not an open field. It's a vertical labyrinth, full of explosive methane gas and fragile bridges that can't support the weight of an armored battalion. If you force a full assault without intelligence, our troops will be slaughtered at the choke points. They will trap us, collapse the ceilings, and we'll die buried under our own trash!"
Rian stared straight at me, the fear in his eyes overridden by an urgent, logical panic.
"The Sky's data is garbage! The Joint Commission only gave us heat coordinates. They gave us locations, not intelligence. We are blind! And with your... hyper-aggressive condition... you'll trigger a guerrilla war that will drain our annual budget in three days!"
I fell silent. The heat in my blood urged me to yell at Rian, to say I didn't care about the budget, that I could melt any obstacle. That I was a reborn Minor Deity.
But the rational part of my brain—the part that was still Wynter Ash the strategist—held my tongue.
Rian was right. This euphoria was making me tactically reckless. Sending large troops into narrow terrain without a map was a recipe for massacre. I almost made a rookie mistake: thinking quantity of force equaled effectiveness.
"Blind..." I murmured, lowering my still faintly smoking hand, trying to suppress my destructive instinct. "You said we are blind."
"You are blind," a cold voice cut in from the corner of the room. "I am not."
Vianna stepped forward from the shadows. She didn't seem bothered by the tension in the room. Instead, she looked bored, as if watching amateur generals playing soldier.
She snapped her fingers, and three new holographic screens appeared above the strategy table, overlaying the confusing red map with sharp, detailed data profiles.
"Rian is right about the Sky's data. The Sovereign doesn't care about details, they only see from orbit," said Vianna, her eyes, coated with digital contact lenses, glowing purple as they processed data streams. "And you, Praetor, you think like a Valdorian: Hit first, ask questions later. But me? I am a banker. And bankers know exactly who holds the money in the gutter."
Vianna slid one profile to the center of the table.
"You won't be fighting nameless ghosts or a random population. The Under-City is ruled by the Three Rat Kings. The Triumvirate of Filth. If you want to control the underground, you don't need to burn the whole city. You just need to behead these three heads." ^2^
The first image appeared. A thin man with many tubes connected to his body, sitting on a complex throne of pipes.
"Vance 'The Valve'," Vianna explained. "Leader of The Pipeline Syndicate. A former hydraulic engineer fired for corruption. He controls The Veins—the logistics pipelines^3^. He manages smuggling. He's smart, cunning, and he hates the Sky more than anyone because they discarded him."
Vianna slid to the second image. A terrifying old woman, half her body a rusty machine, holding a giant wrench like a war mace.
"Forge-Mother Kora," Vianna continued. Kara snorted upon seeing the photo, recognizing the same kind of violence. "Leader of The Iron Eaters. A motorcycle gang and scavengers in The Rust-Works^4^. They are brutal, technological cannibals, and very, very loyal to their 'Mother'. Don't try to negotiate with her using sweet words. She prefers the language of iron."
Then the third image. This was the most disturbing. A blurry photo taken from a distance, showing a ragged-robed figure by the edge of a toxic waste lake.
"And the last one... The Blind Prophet," Vianna's voice lowered. "Leader of the Cult of the Drip in The Sump^5^. A religious fanatic who worships Aether waste. They are insane, unafraid of death, and rumor has it... they have biological weapons from the remains of the Dead Zone."
Vianna looked at me, a crooked smile etched on her perfect lips.
"Those are your enemies, Praetor. A pipe mafia boss, a crazy cyborg mother, and a mutant prophet. Still sure you want to send stupid Golem troops into their traps?"
[The following is a revised narrative for the deduction section.]
[In this version, Wynter uses systemic and logistical analysis (fitting his character as a system manipulator), not just judging physical appearances. He dissects the rebellion's "supply chain" to find its weak points.]
I stepped closer to the holographic table, passing through the blue light projections displaying the faces of the sewer lords. The heat inside my body still sizzled, making my brain work at overclocked processor speed.
"Three kings," I murmured, but my eyes weren't fixed on their faces. They were fixed on the resource consumption and flow data on the map. "One machine needs fuel, one needs bullets, and one needs a vessel."
I pointed at the logistics data for Forge-Mother Kora.
"Kora isn't the brain behind this. Look at her attack patterns," I said quickly, pointing to the movement graphs of the Iron Eaters gang. "They attack Aurum garbage convoys. They attack scrapyard depots. They are hungry. Motorcycle gangs and cyborgs need spare parts and fuel every day. They are wasteful consumers. Whoever is leading this rebellion must feed Kora's war machine, not the other way around. Kora is a dependent, not a provider^1^."
Kara nodded, agreeing with the combat logic. "True. Without oil and batteries, her troops are just piles of scrap metal in two days."
I shifted my gaze to the data on The Blind Prophet in The Sump.
"And this one... he's too unstable to be the architect," my analysis was cold. "His threat is to poison the water supply. That's a kamikaze tactic. That's the tactic of someone who wants the world to end, not someone who wants to negotiate for power. If he were the leader, the Under-City would have all died from a plague last week. He is a biological weapon kept in a closet, a bomb waiting for a trigger^2^."
Then, my hand swept across the map, tracing the red pipeline lines connecting all the underground sectors. All those lines converged at one point.
"Here he is," I whispered. My smile widened, a predator's smile finding the main artery.
"Vance. The Engineer."
I turned to Vianna.
"A rebellion needs logistics, Vianna. You know that. Kora needs fuel. The Prophet needs living followers to indoctrinate. Who can move goods between sectors without being detected by Aurum sensors? Who controls The Veins when they run dry? Who holds the keys to the back doors to the surface?"^3^
"Vance," Vianna answered, her eyes glinting in acknowledgment of my logic. "He controls the valves. Without his permission, nothing moves down there."
"Exactly," I said, my voice full of triumph. "He is the one in charge. He is the Mastermind. Not because he's the strongest, but because he is the Operating System. He's the one who unites the Prophet's fanaticism and Kora's brutality into a single organized threat that scares the Sky."
I walked around the table, the energy in my body making my steps light and deadly.
"Vance is a former engineer. He's a resentful bureaucrat. He doesn't want to destroy this city; he wants to own it. He's blocking logistics routes not to kill us, but to raise his bargaining price. He's conducting aggressive negotiation."^4^
I looked at my team with a final gaze.
"We don't need to burn the whole city. We just need to choke the neck of the one holding the water tap."
"So..." Rian ventured to ask, starting to follow my train of thought. "We attack Vance first?"
[The following is a revised narrative for the final strategy section in Chapter 22.]
[In this version, Wynter shifts his approach from physical confrontation to a transactional (Trade) approach, then mobilizes the full Suzerain power according to the Senate Meeting agreement (Chapter 16) to apply massive external pressure.]
"So..." Rian ventured to ask, starting to follow my train of thought. "We attack Vance first?"
"No," I answered quickly, a cunning sneer etched on my face. The energy inside me sizzled, not urging to destroy, but to conquer.
I took a digital pen and circled Vance's territory on the hologram with a decisive motion.
"War is expensive, Rian. And noisy. If we attack Vance, he'll shut the water tap and the city dies."
I looked at my team with sharply glinting eyes.
"Instead of war, I will go to him to trade."
"Trade?" Vianna raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Vance is a logistics man, just like me," I explained, pacing with full energy. "He's blocking routes not to destroy the city; he's doing it to raise his price. He wants back in the game. He misses status."
I slapped Rian's shoulder hard—a bit too hard because of this euphoria.
"Send him an invitation, Rian. Address it to 'His Excellency, Governor Vance of the Undersector'. Say the Grand Praetor wishes to conduct business negotiations regarding the 'Legalization of Logistics Routes'. Offer him a seat at the dinner table, not at sword point."
Rian nodded quickly, noting the order. "A diplomatic invitation. Understood."
"And one more thing," my voice grew heavier, the authority of the Grand Praetor taking over completely. This euphoria gave me terrifying tactical clarity.
"Diplomacy only works when backed by cannons ready to fire."
I pointed towards the map of the surface city.
"Rian, immediately send a priority signal to the Suzerains. Tell Titus, Silas, and Kael to prepare. Activate the Senate Meeting Protocol (The Pentad Strategy) immediately."
I clenched my fist, recalling the division of tasks we agreed upon in the Nexus Hall^1^.
"Tell Titus: Be The Anvil. Lock down all entry and exit points to the Undersector with steel barricades. Don't let a single rat slip out."
"Tell Silas: Be The Filter. Deploy his clerics to the water pumping stations. If the Blind Prophet tries to poison the water, I want him to fail before he opens the bottle."
"And tell Kael: Be The Scalpel. Prepare his Arbiter team in the shadows. If my 'trade' negotiation fails... I want him ready to slit the enemy's throat in the dark."
I turned to face the large window, looking at the city below that would soon be besieged by the full power of the four academies.
"We will clamp them from the outside with iron and faith, while I go inside to shake their king's hand with a smile. That's the plan."