[HOST INTEGRITY: 9%]
[STATUS: ORGAN FAILURE RISK]
[LOCATION: THE LAST STOP FACTORY – MAIN FLOOR]
[TIME: 11:10 AM]
The factory did not wake up.
No grinders screamed. No conveyor belts rattled. No soul-furnaces coughed smoke.
Silence sat on the production floor like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Ren Wu stood at the edge of the rusty catwalk, one hand gripping the railing to keep his trembling legs steady. He stared down at a business that, technically, did not exist anymore.
Below him, hundreds of workers waited in the gloom.
Ghosts with broken necks. Former gang members with bruises. Clerks. Packers. Drivers.
They did not talk. They watched the catwalk.
A factory without motion was a dead factory. And in the Underworld, a dead factory meant starvation.
Lian hovered beside the central control panel, tapping frantically at dead runes.
"It isn't mechanical," she said, her voice thin with panic. "The power lines are intact. The grid... it just refuses to acknowledge us."
Jian crouched near an access terminal, cables running from his laptop into an exposed socket. Sparks flew, but the screen remained red.
"It's administrative," Jian said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He turned his screen toward Ren.
[POWER GRID ACCESS: SUSPENDED]
[REASON: ASSET FREEZE – CASE #9901]
[AUTHORITY: DEPT. OF SPIRITUAL ADMINISTRATION]
Red Dog crushed an empty metal crate in his massive hand. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"So they didn't blow us up," he growled. "They turned us off."
Ren exhaled slowly. The breath rattled in his chest.
"In my era," Ren rasped, "when the Emperor wanted a Minister dead, he sent soldiers with swords."
He glanced at the frozen machines.
"This generation sends accountants. How efficient."
No one laughed.
A thin ghost near the front raised its hand. Its jaw was cracked, and its contract badge was bent. It had signed yesterday.
"Boss..." the ghost whispered. "Does this mean... no lunch?"
Ren looked at it.
He felt something stir inside his chest. Not pity.
Pressure.
A wealthy CEO could afford mercy. A starving ruler could only afford discipline.
Ren stepped onto the railing so everyone could see him.
"Listen."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of Authority.
"The Administration has frozen our grid. They think this will make you panic. They think hunger makes ghosts disloyal."
Ren's eyes scanned the sea of fearful faces.
"They are half correct."
Silence returned. Heavy and cold.
"You will not be paid today," Ren stated.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"You will not be fed today."
More gasps. Red Dog tensed, ready for a riot.
Ren continued, his voice dropping an octave.
"But nobody leaves."
The workers stared up at him.
"If you leave," Ren said, pointing toward the sealed gates, "you become street trash again. You compete with ten million hungry ghosts for scraps in the gutter."
He pointed downward, at the cold factory floor.
"Inside this fence, you belong to an organization that will exist tomorrow. Outside? You are dust."
Ren lowered his hand.
"I do not ask for your faith. I ask for your patience."
A skeletal worker whispered, "What if the factory never comes back?"
Ren answered instantly.
"Then I will burn down the people who turned it off."
There was no hesitation. No flourish. Just a statement of corporate policy.
The workers did not cheer. They did not bow.
But they stayed.
That was enough.
Ren stepped away from the crowd and entered his office.
The room felt smaller than yesterday. Not physically. Financially.
Jian closed the door and locked it.
"We have inventory," Jian said, reading from a backup tablet. "Black Label stock: 38 units. Standard incense: 1,140 units."
Ren nodded, sinking into his leather chair.
"But no power to make more," Jian added. "And no legal right to sell what we have."
Ren tapped the desk once. Controlled. Precise.
"How long until the workers start collapsing?"
Jian checked a status panel. "Low-tier ghosts? Twelve hours before they fade. The Security Division (Iron Fist Gang)? Twenty-four."
"We are bleeding time," Ren muttered.
"Jian. What do we still own that the Administration cannot freeze?"
Jian hesitated. "Physical assets. Coins in hand. Items in inventory. Non-registered side channels."
Ren's eyes sharpened. "Smuggling routes?"
Jian nodded. "The sewer couriers we used before we formalized distribution. The rats."
Ren leaned back.
Nether-Core had severed the arteries. So Ren would use the veins.
"List all unregistered buyers," Ren ordered. "The desperate ones. The ones who don't ask for receipts."
Jian blinked. "You want me to create a ledger?"
"A handwritten ledger," Ren corrected. "Ink and paper."
Jian hesitated. "That's illegal. The Tax Code requires digital—"
Ren smiled faintly. It was a terrifying expression.
"So is starvation."
Lian drifted into the office, passing through the closed door.
"Boss... even if we sell the stock, we can't produce more. The grinders are electric."
Ren looked at her.
"You will do something the Administration forgot exists."
Lian waited.
"Manual labor."
Her expression turned blank. "Manual?"
"You will open Furnace Three," Ren ordered. "It is soul-fired. It operates without grid power. But it requires constant feeding."
"We downgrade," Ren said, standing up. "Luxury production pauses. Black Label becomes rationed."
Lian stiffened. "But Black Label is our leverage! It's the only reason the Warlords respect us!"
"And leverage must be conserved," Ren replied. "We sell three sticks today."
Lian's eyes widened. "Only three?"
"Yes," Ren opened the office door. "To people who can move cash physically. And to people who fear me enough not to ask why the lights are off."
Twenty minutes later.
A single furnace roared weakly in the center of the factory.
Sweat dripped down spectral faces as workers shoved raw spirit-herbs into the fire by hand. It was ugly. It was slow. It was crude.
But it was production.
Ren walked through the floor.
He saw resentment. He saw fear. He saw hope trying not to die.
A thin ghost collapsed near Furnace Three, its spirit form flickering.
Ren crouched.
He removed a small vial from his pocket. A shard of Black Label. Not a full stick—just a crumb.
He placed it between the ghost's fingers.
"Breathe," Ren commanded.
The ghost inhaled. Color flooded its face. It stood up, eyes wide.
"I'm... I'm still working, Boss..."
Ren stood.
"Remember this moment," Ren said quietly to the watching workers. "When we take over the city, remember who fed you when the lights went out."
Ren returned to his office.
He sat. His hands trembled violently. He hid them under the desk.
[HOST INTEGRITY: 8%]
He stared at the summons letter on his desk.
High-Inquisitor. Judge Mortis.
Ren whispered to the empty room.
"You think I'm trapped."
He smiled faintly.
"In my previous life, I built empires with no money. Only laws."
He stood up.
"Jian."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Prepare a travel bag."
"For where?"
Ren adjusted his ruined tuxedo jacket. He wiped a speck of blood from his lapel.
"The Ye Clan."
Jian swallowed. "You're really going? With 8% health?"
Ren's eyes were calm.
"When the bank freezes you... you go to the people who print legitimacy."
Ren walked toward the exit.
His factory was dark. His people were hungry. The Administration was sharpening a knife.
Ren Wu smiled.
"Good," he whispered. "When everything is collapsing... that is when the real acquisitions begin."