[HOST INTEGRITY: 22%]
[LOCATION: SECTOR 9 — THE UNDERMARKET]
[TIME: 06:00 AM]
The sun didn't rise in Sector 9. The smog just turned from black to a bruised, sickly purple.
Usually, at this hour, the streets were silent. The starving ghosts—the "Vermin" class—would be huddled in the alleyways, trying to conserve their ectoplasm until the charity kitchens opened. Silence was the sound of poverty.
But today, Sector 9 was roaring.
Boss Red Dog stood on top of a rusted shipping container, looking down at the crowd.
He had been a gang leader for forty years. He had seen riots. He had seen turf wars. He had seen the Alchemist Consortium execute entire city blocks for tax evasion.
He had never seen this.
Below him, five thousand ghosts were surging toward the distribution trucks. They weren't fighting. They weren't screaming. They were moving with a terrifying, single-minded focus.
"Line up!" Red Dog barked, his voice amplified by a spirit-horn. "The Minister provides! But the Minister demands Order! Push, and you get nothing!"
Usually, the mob would ignore him. Hunger made ghosts irrational.
But today, the mob froze.
They looked up at Red Dog. Their eyes were wide, desperate, and... obedient.
Red Dog felt a chill crawl up his spine. He looked at the crate next to him.
[PRODUCT: DRAGON-TOOTH ASH (BATCH 001)]
[PRICE: 0.00 SPIRIT COINS]
[CONDITION: ONE STICK PER SOUL]
"Open it," Red Dog ordered his lieutenant.
The lieutenant, a burly ghost with a missing jaw, crowbarred the crate open.
The smell hit them instantly.
It didn't smell like lavender or sandalwood. It smelled of burnt copper and the static air of a coming storm.
Red Dog picked up a stick. It was black, jagged, and heavy. It didn't feel like incense. It felt like holding a fossilized predator's tooth.
"Hand them out," Red Dog whispered. "And pray the Boss knows what he's doing."
The First Dose
In the crowd, a spirit named Old Wu caught the stick thrown to him.
Old Wu had been dead for sixty years. He was a Tier-1 ghost, a former construction worker who had died falling off a scaffold. For decades, he had been fading. His legs were translucent. His mind was foggy. The Hunger was a constant, gnawing rat in his stomach.
He looked at the black shard.
Free, the Red Bandana thug had said. The Minister pays the tab.
Old Wu didn't hesitate. He stuck the jagged end into his mouth and lit it with his fingertip.
FZZT.
The smoke wasn't grey. It was Gold.
It rushed into his lungs like liquid fire.
Old Wu dropped to his knees.
"ARGH!"
The pain was excruciating. It wasn't the dull ache of hunger; it was the sharp, grinding pain of Reconstruction.
He felt his translucent legs solidify. The ectoplasm didn't just thicken; it hardened. His skin turned a dull, metallic grey. The fog in his mind cleared instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
He looked at his hands. They looked like they were carved from granite.
He looked up at the shipping container. He saw the banner hanging behind Red Dog—the Black Lotus of the Ministry.
Old Wu didn't feel gratitude. Gratitude was a human emotion.
He felt Duty.
He stood up. He didn't slouch. He stood at attention.
"Glory," Old Wu whispered, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Glory to the Minister."
Around him, thousands of lighters flicked on.
Thousands of ghosts inhaled.
Thousands of knees hit the pavement.
The sound of the crowd changed. It stopped being a mob.
It became a Legion.
[LOCATION: THE LAST STOP FACTORY — CONTROL ROOM]
"Ren," Jian's voice cracked. "We... we have a problem."
Ren Wu sat in his chair, his eyes closed. He was meditating, trying to stabilize his core after the ritual. Lingshan stood by the door, her hand never leaving her sword.
"Is it the Consortium?" Ren asked without opening his eyes. "Did they send the inspectors?"
"No," Jian said, sweating as he stared at his laptop. "It's the inventory. It's gone. We just emptied the warehouse in forty minutes."
He turned the screen toward Ren.
[INVENTORY: 0 UNITS]
[REVENUE: 0.00 COINS]
[LOCAL ENERGY DENSITY: CRITICAL SPIKE]
"I don't get it," Jian muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We gave away fifty thousand units. We made zero money. But the sensors... the ambient energy in the factory is skyrocketing. The Geiger counter is hitting the limit. It's not radiation, Ren. What is this?"
Ren opened his eyes.
He didn't look at the laptop. He looked at the air itself.
To Jian, it was just energy readings. To Ren, the air was filled with thousands of golden threads, stretching from the factory all the way to the Undermarket.
It wasn't money. It was Weight.
Every time a ghost smoked the ash, a tiny thread of Karma attached itself to Ren's soul. Five thousand threads. Ten thousand. Fifty thousand.
They were feeding him.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[TRIBUTE FLOW: 50,000 UNITS / SECOND]
[SOURCE: GRATITUDE OF THE STARVING]
[CONVERTING TO AUTHORITY EXP...]
"Ren!" Lingshan shouted, stepping forward. "Your nose!"
Ren touched his face.
His nose was bleeding. But it wasn't blood.
It was Liquid Light.
[WARNING: VESSEL INTEGRITY CRITICAL]
[THE LEDGER IS FULL]
Ren grabbed the desk. The metal crumpled under his grip like paper.
"Boss!" Dr. Zhu yelled, his sensors screaming as he hovered closer. "Your vitals are crashing! Your body temperature is hitting 105 degrees! You're burning up from the inside!"
Ren couldn't answer. He grit his teeth, blood leaking from his gums.
Too much, Ren thought. My vessel is only at 22%. I can't process this much power. It's like trying to pour an ocean into a teacup.
The room began to shake. The lights flickered and burst.
Ren fell to his knees.
The pain was blinding. It felt like his brain was being pry-barred open. The memories—the 2,000 years of buried history—were being forced to the surface by the sheer pressure of the Tribute.
[SYNC RATE INCREASING]
[15%...]
[20%...]
Ren's back arched. The veins in his neck bulged, glowing gold.
He wasn't just remembering facts anymore. He was remembering Wars.
He remembered the smell of the Nether-Core boardroom when he executed the First CEO.
He remembered the weight of the Bone Brush as he painted the death warrant of a Star God.
He remembered the Third Art.
[SYNC RATE: 29%...]
"Ren!" Lingshan tackled him.
She wrapped her arms around him, trying to physically hold his shattering body together. Her tactical suit burned where it touched his skin, but she didn't let go.
"Stay with me!" Lingshan shouted, her voice breaking. "Don't get lost in the past! You are Ren Wu! You are in Sector 9! Look at me!"
Ren looked at her.
His eyes were gone. They were two pools of spinning, golden data.
"I see it," Ren whispered.
[SYNC RATE: 30% REACHED]
The Memory of the Armory
Silence.
The pain vanished. The factory vanished. Lingshan vanished.
Ren stood in a white void.
In front of him stood a massive, black iron gate. It was five hundred meters tall. It was covered in chains, locks, and seals.
This was the Minister's Armory. The vault where he had stored his most dangerous tools before the Fall.
The gate rumbled.
[AUTHORITY RECOGNIZED: IRON RANK (TIER-3)]
[UNLOCKING ARCHIVE...]
The chains shattered. The gate groaned open.
Ren didn't see weapons inside. He didn't see swords or guns.
He saw Paperwork.
Rows and rows of floating, golden scrolls. Edicts. Mandates. Laws.
In the Ninth Era, the Minister didn't fight with a sword. He fought with Bureaucracy.
Ren reached out. He grabbed the first scroll.
[ANCIENT ART ACQUIRED: THE HEAVY HAND]
[DESCRIPTION: MANIFEST THE WEIGHT OF THE LAW. CRUSHES PHYSICAL AND SPIRITUAL TARGETS.]
[COST: 5% INTEGRITY / USE]
Ren grabbed the second scroll.
[ANCIENT ART ACQUIRED: TERRITORIAL AUDIT]
[DESCRIPTION: DESIGNATE A ZONE AS 'UNDER INVESTIGATION'. HALTS ALL HOSTILE MAGIC WITHIN 50 METERS.]
Ren grabbed the third scroll.
[PASSIVE SKILL UNLOCKED: THE SOVEREIGN'S AURA]
[EFFECT: LOW-TIER SPIRITS CANNOT ATTACK YOU. THEY MUST PERFORM MANDATORY OBEISANCE.]
The white void began to crack.
"Time to go back," Ren said.
He stepped out of the vault.
The Aftermath
GASSSSSSP.
Ren woke up.
He was lying on the floor of the control room. Smoke was rising from his clothes.
Lingshan was holding him, her face pale. Jian was hiding under the desk. Dr. Zhu was floating in the corner, looking terrified.
"Ren?" Lingshan whispered. "Are you... you?"
Ren sat up.
He felt... heavy.
Not the heaviness of exhaustion. The heaviness of a mountain.
He looked at his hand. The skin was no longer pale. It had a faint, healthy flush.
[HOST INTEGRITY: 30% (STABILIZED)]
[AUTHORITY: TIER-3 (IRON MINISTER)]
The influx of Karma hadn't just unlocked his memory; it had paid for the repairs. The "Teacup" had been upgraded to a "Bucket."
Ren stood up. He adjusted his suit. It was charred, but he didn't care.
He walked to the window.
The Golden Cloud over Sector 9 was thicker now. He could feel the thousands of connections—the "Iron-Ash Legion"—waiting for a command.
"Jian," Ren said. His voice was different. Deeper. It vibrated in the chest of everyone in the room.
"Y-Yeah?" Jian squeaked, peering over the desk. "Ren, you were glowing. Like, literally glowing. My laptop fried just being near you."
"Check the news."
Jian scrambled to his backup tablet. He pulled up the Sector 9 Local News feed.
"BREAKING NEWS: RIOTS IN THE UNDERMARKET."
"ALCHEMIST CONSORTIUM SALES DROP 90% IN ONE HOUR."
"REPORTS OF 'METAL GHOSTS' ATTACKING CONSORTIUM SHOPS."
Jian looked up, his face losing color. "The Consortium... they just put a bounty on us. Five million Spirit Coins. And they dispatched a 'Clean-Up Crew'."
"A Clean-Up Crew?" Dr. Zhu scoffed nervously. "That's code for Assassins. Tier-2 Cultivators. Probably the 'Silent Knives' unit."
Lingshan drew her sword. "I will intercept them at the gate."
"No," Ren said.
He turned around.
His eyes were a calm, terrifying emerald green. But deep in the pupils, the golden gears of the Ledger were turning.
"Put your sword away, Lingshan," Ren said softly. "You are a bodyguard. You protect me from threats."
He walked to the door.
"These aren't threats."
He opened his hand. A faint, golden image of a Giant Ledger flickered in the air above his palm.
"They are just... clerical errors."
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[NEW ART LOADED: THE HEAVY HAND]
[TARGETS ACQUIRED: 5 ASSASSINS (APPROACHING NORTH GATE)]
Ren smiled.
"And I have just remembered how to use the Eraser."
[AUTHOR NOTE]
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Assassins: "Target is unarmed. He's just sitting in a chair." Ren Wu: "I'm not unarmed. I'm just waiting for the paperwork to clear." The Sky: Manifests a 500-meter Golden Hand made of glowing tax forms. Assassins: "Wait, is that... a palm strike?" Ren Wu: "No. It's a Stamp."
Next Chapter: The Heavy Hand. We stop playing "Underworld Tycoon." We start playing "Whack-a-Mole." The first Tier-3 Ancient Art is unleashed. It is violent, it is unfair, and it is glorious.
The Algorithm is trying to suppress the Iron-Ash Legion! Break the suppression with Power Stones! 💎🔥