Novels by Ivy B

"He’s right, you know," Kael muttered, wincing as another wave of diagnostic data scrolled across his visor. He stepped between Zhaevrik and the older mechanic, holding up his hands defensively. "If you want to shoot someone, shoot the board members up in the spires. They’re the ones currently freezing your intake valves."The veteran mechanic narrowed his mismatched eyes—one a dull organic brown, the other a clicking, zooming optical lens—and looked Kael up and down. "Freezing our intake valves? What are you babbling about, kid? The thermal pressure has been steady for a month.""Not anymore," Zhaevrik said, his magnetic pistol finally lowering, though the targeting reticles in his crimson HUD remained active, tracking every heartbeat in the room. "The executive board just initiated a district-wide thermal throttling protocol. They realized they’re losing control of the mid-tier energy distribution, so they're weaponizing the weather against us. Give it another twenty minutes, and th

"Turf?" Zhaevrik's magnetic pistol didn't waver, the targeting reticle locking dead-center on the old mechanic's throat. "There's no turf down here, old man. There's only the heat, the pipes, and whoever knows how to keep them from blowing us all to ash."The veteran mechanic scoffed, a harsh sound like grinding gears, and spat a glob of dark grease onto the steaming deckplates. "Is that right? You wander into Sub-Level Nine with your glowing red optics and fancy military-grade interface, bleeding our pressure lines dry, and you think you own the steam?""I didn't bleed your lines," Zhaevrik said, his voice level, flat, and carrying the synthetic resonance of a machine speaking through human vocal cords. "I stabilized them. If I hadn't diverted that secondary valve three minutes ago, every turbine in this sector would have detonated, and you and your crew would currently be boiling inside your own skin."Kael scrambled up from the deck, clutching his head as his HUD continued to flash

"Corporate managers don't leave gifts for outcasts," a harsh, gravelly voice echoed from the shadowed archway behind the massive brass valve.Zhaevrik spun on his heel, his synthetic reflexes snapping his right arm up as a heavy magnetic pistol materialized in his grip. His crimson HUD instantly flooded with targeting vectors, painting three distinct heat signatures emerging from the swirling, white-hot vapor of the sub-level maintenance tunnel."Lower the iron before you lose a hand, boy," the lead silhouette rasped, stepping forward into the sickly green glow of a dangling conduit light. He was an older man, his chest and arms a chaotic patchwork of industrial-grade prosthetics and raw, scarred flesh. A heavy pneumatic riveting tool hung loosely from his left hip, dripping with grease and condensed moisture. Behind him stood a dozen workers, their faces grim, soot-stained, and framed by the dull metallic sheen of implanted optical visors. "You're standing on turbine worker turf. Sip

"I'm not panicking, I'm melting!" Kael snapped back, though his breathing hitched as his HUD flashed a new, stabilized blue gradient across his peripheral vision. The oppressive crimson warning lights receded, replaced by neat columns of diagnostic data streaming down the left side of his visor. "Fine. The pressure curve... it's dropping. How did you do that?""By reading the schematics instead of screaming at the pipes," Zhaevrik replied evenly, yanking his fiber-optic cable free from the junction box with a sharp mechanical hiss. A puff of super-heated air escaped the port, smelling faintly of ozone and old machine oil. "The corporate managers who built this sector left an emergency bleed-off valve two levels down. If we route our siphons there, we can tap directly into their primary turbine feed without tripping the main security tripwires.""Corporate managers don't leave gifts for outcasts," a harsh, gravelly voice echoed from the shadowed archway behind the massive brass valve.

"Easy for you to bark orders when your nervous system doesn't feel like it's being basted in boiling oil!" Kael yelled, dropping heavily onto the vibrating deckplates beside Zhaevrik. He slapped his hands against the side of his helmet, his fingers clicking frantically against the casing. "You think I haven't tried rerouting? The coolant reservoirs are already maxed out! We're sitting inside a literal furnace!""Look at your HUD, Kael. Not your localized heat sensors—look at the thermal pressure distribution overlay I just pushed to your root directory," Zhaevrik commanded, not looking away from the towering, shuddering brass valve before them. His crimson-lit eyes flickered as he interfaced directly with the conduit's external port, a thick cable of fiber-optic filaments unspooling from his wrist and plugging into the junction box. "Stop panicking. Panic increases your core metabolic rate, which generates more internal heat. You are literally cooking yourself from the inside out.""O

"Move! We’re coming up on the primary manifold junction now!" Zhaevrik’s voice cut sharply through the roaring hiss of pressurized steam, his crimson HUD projecting a complex lattice of glowing routing lines across his retinas.Kael slammed his foot down onto a rusted catwalk, his breathing coming in ragged, metallic hitches as a plume of scalding vapor vented from a ruptured joint three meters to their left. "I can't take much more of this! My internal temperature gauge is flashing a solid, blinding red! If I push another step into this heat, my synthetic nodes are going to melt into my spine!""You'll survive," Zhaevrik barked without breaking his stride, dropping into a low tactical crouch behind a massive, vibrating distribution valve the size of an ore-hauler. "Override your pain receptors and route the excess heat directly into your auxiliary armor reserves. That’s what the integration was built for.""Easy for you to bark orders when your nervous system doesn't feel like it's b

"Who are you? This kitchen is no place for outsiders."Pierre Dumont stood in front of the main stove with both hands clenched into fists. His white chef uniform was wrinkled at the collar. The bags under his eyes were dark. Behind him, four kitchen staff members stopped slicing, chopping, and stirring—all turning toward the door with the same guarded expression.Rovan stood at the threshold of The Gilded Hearth kitchen. He wore a plain black shirt, dark trousers, and a gray apron he picked up from the rack near the entrance. No name on his chest. No logo. Only one sentence spoken in a flat tone."New management sent me. I am the kitchen consultant."Pierre narrowed his eyes. "New management? Which management? Ashworth is gone. I submitted my resignation three days ago.""I know. And the new management did not accept it.""Who did not accept it?"Rovan stepped inside. His pace was unhurried. His eyes swept the kitchen in a single sweep: two stoves with unstable flames, one frying pan

"Are you sure this is edible, Rovan?"George lifted his spoon with a hesitant expression, staring at the fried rice that had just been poured onto a plastic plate. Scrambled eggs were scattered on top, mixed with chopped onions and a splash of soy sauce. Nothing special. Just leftover ingredients from the cafeteria that were supposed to be thrown away, repurposed in the small utility room kitchen."It is," Rovan answered flatly. He was still stirring a second pan for Doris. "Just eat it before it gets cold."Doris, who was already sitting on a folding chair near the mop rack, immediately took a spoonful. Her eyes widened. "This is... delicious. Really. It tastes better than the cafeteria food we buy every day.""Because I do not use oil that has been used four times," Rovan said without turning.George chewed slowly. Then chewed faster. "Alright. I take back my question. This is edible. In fact, very edible.""You say that every time I cook.""Because you always cook well. Strange for

Three days had passed since that voice echoed on the end of the line, but Rovan had not slept more than four hours in a single night.He sat in the dark living room of the flat, a laptop open on his knees. The screen showed the organizational structure he had built himself over the past three days. No logos. No addresses. No names that could be tracked at Companies House or any public registry. Just one phrase printed at the top of the internal document, in sans-serif capital letters:PENDLETON CROWN.In the inner pocket of the uniform hanging on the hook near the door, his phone vibrated. Rovan closed the laptop, walked to the kitchen, and answered the call in a low voice so as not to wake Millie in the next room."Report."The voice on the other end sounded professional. Emotionless. One of the three proxy directors he had recruited through the Aegis Security Group database. A lawyer. His name did not matter. He had never met Rovan. Never would."The holding structure is registered

The blue interface appeared before Rovan's eyes before Millie's voice completely faded in the hall.[Sincere praise detected.][Location: Main Hall, in front of more than two hundred third parties][Reward released.] [New Skill: Grandmaster Martial Arts – Pure Defensive Stance][Ownership: Permanent. Cannot be revoked.] [Note: This power only activates in defense. Not for aggression.]The knowledge flowed like water filling an empty vessel. Body positioning. Balance points. Reading the direction of an attack before the opponent's muscles even moved. It all felt like it had been in his head for a long time, just waiting to be unlocked.Victoria still stood with her hand raised. Her fingers were spread open, pointing toward the collar of Rovan's uniform. Millie was between them, both arms stretched out, her small body acting as a shield."Do not touch my dad!" Millie repeated, her voice higher now. "He is not allowed to be touched! My dad is a martial arts expert! He can beat anyone!"

"Representative of the cleaning staff? Are you joking, Caldwell?"Whitmore's voice resounded clearly in the hall, which was already packed with nearly two hundred parents. He stood beside the podium with a leather folder open, his black suit without a single wrinkle. Behind him, his female colleague arranged documents on the table. In the front row, Victoria Ashford sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes red but her back straight.Caldwell stood at the podium with a tense face. "Mr. Miller is an official staff member of this school. He is attending as a non-teaching representative. According to emergency meeting procedures.""Procedures?" Whitmore let out a short laugh. "We are discussing land ownership worth forty million pounds, and you bring a janitor to the bargaining table?"Quiet laughter echoed from a few corners of the hall. Not many. But enough.Rovan stood in the third row from the back. His gray uniform was clean—he had changed before coming in—but it was still

"I do not know what I can do, Rovan. But I need you here tonight."Caldwell said those words with a voice that was barely audible. He sat in the wooden chair in his office, both hands folded on the desk. In front of him, the notice of termination of land usage rights left by Whitmore and Associates still lay there. The envelope was already open. The original document had been photocopied three times for three senior staff members.Rovan stood in front of the desk. His gray uniform was still damp on the back from trimming the hedges. His hands were still green with plant sap. He had just come in from the east garden when the receptionist called him."What is it, Sir?" Rovan asked. His voice was flat. Not rushed.Caldwell slid the document to the center of the desk. "Did you see this?"Rovan looked down. His eyes swept the first line. Then the second line. He did not touch the paper. "A lease termination letter.""Yes. From Whitmore and Associates. On behalf of Lord Ashford." Caldwell s