Divorced on Monday, Bought the City on Tuesday: The Infinite

The Crimson Saints

Chapter 42

The Mediterranean Sea was pitch-black, rolling with heavy swells. Five nautical miles off the coast of the Sovereign State of Vance, a radar-invisible stealth submarine breached the surface. Its sleek, predatory hull shed seawater like a metallic leviathan rising for air.

The hatch hissed open, releasing pressurized air.

Four figures climbed out onto the slick deck. They did not wear tactical gear. They did not carry conventional firearms. They wore flowing, deep-crimson robes that seemed to absorb the ambient light. Their faces were obscured by blank, featureless silver masks.

These were the Crimson Saints. The Vivaldi bloodline’s most guarded secret. They were not human. They were ancient, genetically altered apex predators kept in cryogenic stasis, unleashed only when the Old Families faced absolute extinction.

"Target acquired," the lead Saint whispered. The voice was a terrifying, dual-toned rasp that sounded like two people speaking simultaneously.

They didn't deploy rafts. They didn't swim.

The four Saints stepped off the hull of the submarine and landed on the rolling surface of the ocean. Their feet didn't break the water's surface tension. Channeling a microscopic, highly classified manipulation of bio-kinetic energy, they sprinted across the violent waves toward the island at highway speeds.

Inside the presidential palace, the atmosphere was entirely calm.

Arthur sat at the head of a massive, newly constructed smart-glass boardroom table. Victoria Sterling sat to his right, reviewing holographic ledgers that projected directly from the table’s surface. Nyx was slouched in a chair at the far end, tapping away on her laptop, a mountain of pink bubblegum wrappers piling up next to her.

"The economic shift is unprecedented, Arthur," Victoria reported, her voice carrying a deep, reverent respect. "With the Genesis Protocol rebuilding the infrastructure, the island's GDP has spiked by four thousand percent in twelve hours. We are entirely self-sustaining. The orbital ledger is processing trillions of micro-transactions without a single earthly bank catching the scent."

"Good," Arthur replied, sipping a cup of black coffee. He didn't look tired. The Leviathan Marrow Serum made sleep an optional luxury. "Prepare a buyout package for the remaining European shipping lanes. I want Vivaldi completely starved of global transit by Friday."

Suddenly, Nyx stopped chewing her gum.

The holographic screens hovering above her laptop flared violently red.

"Boss," Nyx said, her voice dropping all traces of humor. "The Aegis Phalanx perimeter defense just triggered. Something bypassed the radar, the sonar, and the orbital thermal scans. They just hit the western beach."

Arthur set his coffee cup down. The ceramic clink was the only sound in the dead-silent room.

"How did they bypass a Level 3 System grid?" Arthur asked, his golden eyes narrowing.

"They don't have a digital footprint," Nyx typed frantically, bringing up live feed footage from the beach. "They don't have body heat. They’re running entirely cold. Boss... the Phalanx is engaging."

On the massive screen, the pristine white sands of the western beach were suddenly illuminated by the blinding muzzle flashes of the Aegis Phalanx. Fifty cybernetically augmented super-soldiers unleashed a devastating barrage of sub-orbital kinetic rounds into the darkness. The firepower was enough to level a small mountain.

But the four crimson-robed figures didn't fall.

They moved with a speed that defied the laws of physics, weaving through the hail of hypersonic bullets as if they were strolling through a gentle rain.

The lead Saint closed the distance to the front line of the Phalanx. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply extended a pale, scarred hand and touched the chest plate of the closest super-soldier.

The hyper-dense adaptive armor capable of withstanding a direct missile strike instantly oxidized and crumbled into gray ash.

The soldier collapsed, his cybernetic core completely disabled.

"What the hell is that?" Victoria gasped, standing up so fast her chair tipped backward. "They just deleted military-grade armor with a touch!"

"Bio-decay," Nyx whispered, her neon-green eyes wide with shock. "It's an ancient genetic weapon. Boss, earthly bullets won't stop them. The Phalanx is getting slaughtered."

On the screen, the four Saints moved like reapers through the heavy infantry, turning the invincible super-soldiers to ash with sickening efficiency.

Arthur stood up. He casually unbuttoned his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. He loosened his silk tie.

"Recall the Phalanx," Arthur commanded, his voice cold, heavy, and absolutely devoid of fear. "Tell them to fall back to the city perimeter. I don't want them wasting my assets."

"Arthur, you can't fight them," Victoria pleaded, grabbing his arm. The sheer terror in her shattered-ice eyes was genuine. "You saw what they did to the armor! If they touch you, you’ll rot!"

Arthur gently pulled his arm from her grasp. He looked down at her, his Aura of the Sovereign flaring outward, filling the room with a suffocating, god-like pressure.

"They brought rot to my island," Arthur whispered, rolling his shoulders. "I'm going to show them what a Grandmaster does to a dying weed."

He turned and walked toward the heavy glass doors of the boardroom.

"Vera," Arthur called out.

The white-haired assassin materialized from the shadows, her crimson eyes glowing with absolute, psychotic joy. She drew her high-density combat blade, the steel hissing in the quiet room.

"Yes, Master Vance."

"Let's go greet our guests."