2026-02-16 05:18:57The Zenith Tower pierced the clouds like a needle of glass and arrogance.
Arlan parked the stolen van three blocks away, in a shadowy loading zone meant for garbage trucks. It was fitting. He was about to take out the trash. He watched the entrance through the rain-streaked windshield. Limousines. Bentleys. Hover-cars that cost more than a small country’s GDP. Men in tuxedos that cost more than Arlan’s life. Women in dresses that sparkled like diamonds. Target selection. He didn't need a System for this. He needed common sense. He couldn't take a fat man's suit—it would hang off him like a tent. He couldn't take an old man's suit—too vintage, he’d stand out. He needed someone... his size. There. A young man, maybe twenty-five. Blonde. Drunk. Stumbling out of a red sports car, yelling at his valet. He waved a gold-embossed envelope in the air like a flag. "Don't scratch it, you peasant! Do you know who my father is?" Arlan smiled. Perfect. He pulled up his hood. He slid the plastic spoon—now sharpened against the concrete floor into a crude shank—into his sleeve. He exited the van. The rain was a blessing. It masked his footsteps. It washed away the smell of the sewers. He approached the young man from the blind spot. The valet was busy parking the car. The young man was busy checking his reflection in a puddle, fixing his hair. "Excuse me," Arlan whispered. The young man turned, sneering. "Get lost, hobo. I don't have chan—" [ CQC MASTERY: ENGAGE. ] [ Technique: Carotid Choke. ] [ Duration: 4 Seconds. ] Arlan didn't punch. He didn't make a scene. He stepped in, spun the man around, and locked his arm around the throat. He applied pressure. Precision pressure. Cutting off the blood flow to the brain, not the air. Silent. The young man’s eyes went wide. He clawed at Arlan’s arm. One second. (Struggle.) Two seconds. (Panic.) Three seconds. (Legs go weak.) Four seconds. (Sleep.) The man slumped. Arlan caught him before he hit the wet pavement. To anyone watching from a distance, it looked like a drunk friend helping another drunk friend. Arlan dragged him into the shadows of the loading dock, behind a dumpster that smelled of rotting fish and expensive leftovers. "Sorry," Arlan muttered, stripping the man of his jacket, his pants, and his shoes. "But you won't need these tonight." He took the gold envelope. Mr. Sebastian Sterling. "Nice name," Arlan noted. "I'll take good care of it." Ten minutes later. Arlan stood in front of the van’s side mirror. The tuxedo was Italian silk. It smelled of expensive gin and entitlement. The pants were a little tight around the thighs—Arlan’s legs were stronger now, built for running, not sitting in boardrooms. The shoes pinched his toes. He slicked his hair back with rainwater. He adjusted the bow tie. He looked at his reflection. The bruise on his cheek was still there, faint but visible. A souvenir from the bouncer. "System," he whispered. "Can you mask the bruise?" [ MINOR COSMETIC ILLUSION AVAILABLE. ] [ Cost: 10 Karma Points. ] "Do it." A shimmer of light passed over his face. The bruise vanished. His skin looked flawless. Porcelain. He looked like a prince. A prince with a knife in his pocket. He walked to the main entrance. "Invitation, sir?" The doorman was a giant in a red coat. He scanned Arlan up and down. Arlan handed over the gold envelope. His heart rate remained at a steady 50 BPM. "Sterling," Arlan said, injecting just the right amount of boredom into his voice. "Sebastian Sterling." The doorman checked the list on his tablet. Then he looked at Arlan. Arlan held his breath. Does he know him? Is there a photo on that tablet? "Ah, Mr. Sterling. Your father is already inside. Enjoy the evening." The velvet rope unhooked. Arlan stepped through the rotating glass doors. Whoosh. The noise of the city vanished. The cold rain vanished. Inside, the air was warm and scented with lavender. Soft jazz played from invisible speakers. A chandelier the size of a house hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over everything. It was beautiful. It was disgusting. Arlan walked into the Grand Ballroom. Hundreds of people. The elite of Veridian City. The people who signed the checks that bulldozed Arlan’s neighborhood. The people who laughed while the poor drowned. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He didn't drink it. He just held it. Camouflage. He scanned the room. [ SYSTEM SCANNING... ] [ High Concentration of Karma Debt Detected. ] [ This room is a goldmine. ] Numbers floated above everyone’s heads in red text. A Senator with [Debt: 15,000] (Corruption). A Real Estate Tycoon with [Debt: 40,000] (Illegal Evictions). A Fashion Model with [Debt: 2,000] (Public Slander). If Arlan wanted to, he could harvest enough points here to become a god. But he had a specific target. He moved through the crowd. He was a shark in a tank of colorful, poisonous fish. And then, he saw him. On the main stage, under the spotlight. Julian Mahendra. He looked angelic. White suit. Perfect hair. He was holding a microphone, smiling that winning smile that had charmed investors and destroyed Arlan’s life. "Ladies and gentlemen," Julian’s voice boomed, smooth as velvet. "Thank you for coming. Tonight isn't just about charity. It's about legacy." The crowd applauded politely. Clinking glasses. "My father built this city," Julian continued, placing a hand on his chest. "And though he is... unwell... I promise to carry his torch. We will clean up the streets. We will remove the filth that plagues our society." Arlan’s grip on the champagne glass tightened. Filth. That was him. That was his mother. [ TARGET LOCKED: Julian Mahendra. ] [ Karma Debt: 5,500 (Increasing). ] [ Opportunity: PUBLIC HUMILIATION. ] Arlan sipped the champagne. It tasted sour. He saw a waiter carrying a tray of appetizers near the sound system control board. The technician was distracted, flirting with a waitress in a short skirt. Arlan smiled. He didn't need to rush the stage. That was suicide. Security was everywhere. He needed to make Julian’s own words choke him. He began to walk toward the sound booth. "Excuse me," Arlan murmured, bumping into the technician. "Hey! Watch it!" the tech snapped, spilling a drop of soda on his console. "My apologies," Arlan bowed. But his hand had already moved. [ SKILL: SLEIGHT OF HAND (Derived from CQC). ] In his palm was a small wireless transmitter. Not a USB. Just a signal booster he had bought from the System Store five minutes ago with his last points. He slapped it onto the side of the console. Invisible. "System," Arlan whispered. "Hijack the feed." [ WIRELESS INTERFACE ESTABLISHED. ] [ AUDIO SOURCE: Julian’s Private Cloud (Hacked via Guard's Phone). ] [ FILE SELECTED: 'VoiceMemo_04.mp3' ] "Play it," Arlan thought. On stage, Julian raised his glass. "To a brighter future! To a cleaner Veridian!" SCREECH. The speakers whined. A feedback loop pierced the air. Julian stopped talking, looking confused. "Technical difficulties, folks," Julian laughed nervously. "Seems like the mic is—" Then, a voice boomed through the hall. It was Julian’s voice. But not the polite one. It was the one from the alley. The one dripping with malice. “...The old man is dying. Finally. God, he takes forever. Once he kicks the bucket, I’m liquidating the charity fund. Who cares about the orphans? I need that money for the new yacht.” The ballroom went silent. Dead silent. The Senator dropped his fork. Clang. The Fashion Model gasped. On stage, Julian’s face went pale. Ghostly pale. "Cut it!" he screamed at the sound tech. "Cut the feed! Turn it off!" But the recording continued. Louder. “...And that bastard brother of mine? Arlan? If he shows up, break his legs. No, better yet—kill him and make it look like an overdose. I don't want any claimants to the inheritance. Just get rid of the trash.” The crowd began to murmur. Phones were coming out. Cameras were flashing. Livestreams were starting. Julian looked like he was about to vomit. He looked out into the crowd, his eyes searching frantically. "This is a deepfake!" he shouted, his voice cracking, losing all composure. "AI! It's AI! Someone is framing me! It's a lie!" Arlan stepped out from behind the pillar. He stood in the center of the aisle. The spotlight drifted, catching the reflection of his glass. He raised his glass to the stage. Julian saw him. Their eyes locked across the sea of tuxedos. Arlan saw the recognition. He saw the fear. Arlan mouthed one word. Balance. Then he dropped the champagne glass. SMASH. The sound of shattering crystal was the starting gun. [ QUEST COMPLETE: CRASH THE PARTY. ] [ Julian’s Reputation: DESTROYED. ] [ Karma Points Earned: 2,000. ] [ WARNING: Security Alert. Hostiles Incoming. ] Arlan turned around. Four guards were sprinting toward him. He smiled. The party was just getting started.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Hour Thirty-Six: The Avalanche
Endurance is not a virtue. It is a biological currency, and every living creature has a finite account. When the reserves are drained, the mind begins to hallucinate, the muscles cannibalize themselves, and the primal instinct to simply lie down and die becomes overwhelmingly seductive. Thirty-six hours had passed since Arlan Mahendra’s heart stopped beating. The subterranean medical wing of The Citadel was no longer a hospital. It was a purgatory of blistering heat and the cloying, metallic stench of dried blood. The temperature had stabilized at an agonizing one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. The air scrubbers had failed twelve hours ago, their internal filters melted by the radiant cosmic energy leaking from the surgical table. Dr. Elena Rostova sat on the pristine white tiles, her back pressed against the humming base of the cardiopulmonary bypass machine. She was unrecognizable from the fiercely composed surgeon who had initiated
Hour Three: Blood and Sisters
Gravity is an entirely impartial executioner. It does not care about your royal bloodline, your tactical training, or the fanatical devotion burning in your chest. When a human body falls fifty feet and strikes solid, frozen concrete, physics demands a catastrophic toll. Katarina Volkov hit the floor of the abandoned meatpacking plant with a sound that belonged in an abattoir. It was a wet, sickening, heavy crunch that echoed over the howling wind tearing through the gaping hole in the roof above her. The hyper-concentrated combat stimulant pumping through her veins—the proprietary synthetic adrenaline Dr. Elena Rostova had injected into her thigh—was the only reason her brain did not immediately shut off. It violently violently intercepted the massive pain signals screaming from her shattered body, keeping her hovering agonizingly on the precipice of consciousness. She lay on her back, staring up at the stormy, dark sky. The snow f
Hour Two: The Broken Blade
The human brain is hardwired for survival. When faced with an apex predator, the amygdala floods the nervous system with a desperate, singular command: flee. But the synthetic, hyper-concentrated combat stimulant pumping through Katarina Volkov’s veins did not allow for fear. It brutally severed the neural pathways of self-preservation, replacing them with a blinding, euphoric aggression. The agonizing frostbite consuming her useless left arm was muted to a dull, distant throb. The world slowed down. The howling Siberian blizzard swirling across the ruined factory roof felt perfectly still. She stood twenty feet away from the Siberian Anomaly, a seven-foot leviathan of jagged, pale-blue ice and cosmic kinetic power. She held a nine-inch titanium combat knife in a reverse grip. It was a pathetic weapon against a creature that could freeze supersonic bullets in mid-air. But Katarina didn't care about the math. She cared about the man bleeding o
Hour Two: The Snow and the Slaughter
The ascent to the surface was a journey between two conflicting hells. Behind them, the medical wing was a boiling, suffocating oven of one hundred and thirty degrees, harboring the mutating, cosmic chrysalis of a god. Above them, the ruined elevator shaft was a vertical tunnel of absolute, biting zero. Katarina Volkov and Viper climbed the emergency maintenance ladder bolted to the frozen concrete wall of the shaft. They moved with terrifying, unnatural speed. The hyper-concentrated combat stimulants coursing through their veins had entirely overridden their biological limiters. For Katarina, the agonizing, necrotic frostbite eating at her left arm was completely muted, replaced by a violent, buzzing electrical static in her brain. Her vision was razor-sharp. Her heart hammered against her ribs at one hundred and sixty beats per minute, pumping synthetic adrenaline and hyper-oxygenated blood into her augmented Spetsnaz muscles. She
Hour Two: The Frozen Crown
The ascent up the ruined elevator shaft was an agonizing, humiliating retreat for an apex predator. The Siberian Anomaly hauled his massive, seven-foot frame up the sheer concrete walls, using his remaining left hand to drive jagged spikes of hyper-dense ice deep into the bedrock for leverage. He didn't climb with the fluid grace of an assassin. He climbed with the brutal, jerking desperation of a wounded animal. His entire right side was a smoking, cauterized ruin. The golden pulse of the Sovereign’s domain had not simply severed his arm; it had erased the matter from existence. The flesh at his shoulder socket was seared flat, the nerve endings screaming with a phantom, cosmic friction that his localized absolute zero field could not soothe. When he finally reached the surface, hauling himself over the shattered, ten-ton iron doors of the abandoned meatpacking plant, he collapsed onto the frozen asphalt. The freezing coastal rain
Hour One: The Sovereign's Pulse
Death is rarely a cinematic experience. It does not wait for a final monologue, nor does it offer a moment of profound clarity. It simply arrives, cold and absolute. Katarina Volkov stared up at the descending mass of hyper-dense, pale-blue ice. The Siberian Anomaly’s massive fist was coming down with enough localized kinetic force to pulverize the thick titanium blast doors behind her, and her skull along with it. Her lungs were paralyzed by the absolute zero field. Her left arm was entirely numb, the flesh blackened and crystallized by severe frostbite. She didn't close her eyes. The War Princess refused to blink in the face of the void. But the void never reached her. The heavy, three-inch-thick titanium blast doors at Katarina’s back did not open. They hissed, a terrifying, high-pitched screech of rapidly expanding metal. Exactly a microsecond before the Anomaly’s fist struck Katarina’s face, the center of the titanium
You may also like
Levelling Up The Weakest System
Matthew Harris23.9K viewsThe martial Lord
Supreme king94.4K viewsThe Charismatic Steve With System
Jusuf Morris 27.8K viewsLord Of The Ultra Billionaire System
Author_Danny25.1K viewsBANG BANG BANG
Phanie O'Neri2.0K viewsDominator System
Ken 9.1K viewsThe System of Justice
Rey Maulana325 viewsUseless?! Ha! I Get $10,000,000 For Face-Slapping!
Sweet savage815 views