"A dried corpse in its tomb, a man nearing death."
Thanks to the numerous military-grade encrypted relay stations Arasaka had secretly constructed across the western U.S., Vela, operating from Los Angeles, was able to monitor the launch of Operation "Fluttering Sleeve Vajra" in real time with minimal latency—particularly the synchronized execution across multiple counties and states.
Through flickering video feed frequencies, the wall of displays showed scene after scene unfolding live.
When she saw the screen labeled [Phoenix, Arizona]—her designated "retaliation target"—where the luxurious estate had already been bombed into rubble and cyber-enhanced tyrants had been deployed, methodically flattening the site like a demolition crew—
Vela knew: for Arasaka's intervention into the two southwestern states, with a bit of "accidental collateral" as pretext, Arizona's Secretary of State, Plymouth Devon, was already a dead man.
The only difference was whether his corpse would be intact—or reduced to sludge.
Literal sludge.
Rubbing her chin, Vela's eyes flashed with an orange-red glow of data light. Her thoughts synchronized with her system; a few transmitted commands, and the images on the holoscreen jumped between regions, vehicles, and individual points of view.
Latest intel: the Lazarus Mobile Field Mercenary Regiment, long kept under Myers' thumb, had mobilized.
A military deployment of this scale was impossible to keep secret.
Lazarus wasn't some second-rate merc outfit. With so many armored transports and a full array of tactical weaponry, the sheer force of their advancing convoy—columns of war vehicles, silver eagles snapping in the wind—couldn't be ignored.
They were currently marching south from Kansas, one of the buffer states of the central front.
Just as Vela was contemplating how best to reinforce Hansen's Barghest forces—anything to help them hold out a little longer against the steamroller that was Lazarus' main force—
Tap tap—crisp footsteps sounded behind her.
"Oh, so that's the poor bastard who got screwed over by his own old subordinates? Pathetic Devon… Vela, don't tell me you planned all this back at the Austin multilateral summit."
It was Michiko Arasaka's voice.
"Lady Michiko, party over already?" Vela turned her head and replied.
In Los Angeles, only Michiko—and those ninja bodyguards raised in the Arasaka Family Compound—would be allowed to enter Vela's quarters without prior notice.
"Only because of you..."
Holding a wide-bellied lowball glass at her waist, Michiko strode over to Vela with brisk steps, glanced at the holoscreen showing the military status of the western states, then cast Vela a subtle, complex look.
"You really are something. Barely three months in, and already you're stirring up rebellion among the western local parties and pushing the Free States to open independence... Saburo must have praised you for this more than once, so I'll spare you the typical compliments."
She swirled the ice in her glass, clink clink, and plopped herself onto the leather sofa beside Vela.
Unlike Hanako Arasaka, who was raised in the Family Compound under Saburo's approved traditional education, Michiko—born and raised in America—embodied a kitsch individualism, free-spirited and unconstrained by strict etiquette.
"The people Saburo admires—like my father—are they all Machiavellian types obsessed with power and loyal to cold-blooded glory?"
Michiko stared into Vela's eyes, her question loaded with meaning.
"Better to say: it's about ambition."
With a faint smile, Vela crossed her bare legs and leaned on her hand lazily, answering without hesitation, as if completely unfazed.
Michiko was poking at her core.
After all, Vela's central strategy—or rather Arasaka's strategy for North America—wasn't hard to guess.
As long as neither side collapsed, war was inevitable—just a matter of time.
This renewed round of overt and covert conflict over Free States independence merely escalated the confrontation and ignited new geopolitical tensions. It gave third-party analysts and international provocateurs an excuse to keep advancing the predicted timeline for a second Metal War.
It was clear: Michiko harbored real confusion—and fear—toward the prospect of a full-scale corporate war.
But thinking about it, it made sense. If Michiko had any deeply seared memory of war, it would be this: a high school girl who lost her father during the Fourth Corporate War.
Forced to grow up alone in North America, surrounded by wolves, while also dealing with formidable figures like President Elizabeth Kress—though she had wisely protected herself and left room for negotiation even under coercion—the shadow of trauma was unavoidable.
War—who isn't afraid of it?
Experiencing a real battlefield is nothing like indulging in even the most realistic braindance.
Vela feared losing too. She feared failure.
But so what if she was afraid?
If fear ruled her, what was she doing in this corporate hell?
If fear ruled her, why climb the Arasaka Tower?
On reflection, it wasn't all that complicated. Myers had her own long list of concerns. Once the strategic direction was set, overthinking was pointless.
Victory—through war—was the only option.
And besides, she wasn't charging in barehanded.
"My dear 'sister,' are you scared?"
Hands folded atop her crossed leg, without a hint of pretense, Vela glanced at Michiko and said, "Relax. If I intend to rise, I must protect you. Machiavellian? Willing to use any means to reach my goal? Mm-hmm, pretty accurate. But you are outside the scope of 'any means.'"
The wording wasn't great—but oddly, it reassured Michiko.
She trusted Vela's capability—and she understood clearly: if Vela wanted to smoothly and securely inherit Kei Arasaka's legacy—and go even further toward the summit—then harming Michiko was not an option. On the contrary, Vela had to protect her. Unless Michiko got herself killed.
That seat atop Arasaka Tower wasn't stable to begin with. Better to foster goodwill. On paper, after all, Vela was still her younger sister.
"Such an ambitious declaration... but at least you're honest."
This little sister was young enough to be her granddaughter.
Michiko chuckled lightly and quickly regained composure.
"So, after you've wrung every bit of value from that dried-up husk of a man, my dear 'sister'... I hope you won't end up like Cao Cao at Red Cliffs, or Liu Bei at Yiling."
"Huh?" Michiko's words caught Vela slightly off guard.
So you too...
"Though I was born and raised in America, you're not the only one who read Spring and Autumn Annals or Romance of the Three Kingdoms late at night," Michiko said breezily.
She really had read them—but that was long ago.
She remembered her father, Kei Arasaka, as a devoted fan of Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
Of course, such topics didn't get much traction in North America—especially after the Old Net collapsed.
"Don't get arrogant or impatient, huh..." Rubbing her temple, Vela let out a dry laugh, then looked at Michiko. "Thanks."
The sudden gratitude threw Michiko for a loop. She just shrugged.
"You've accelerated the pace of war. From now on, parties like tonight's won't be so relaxing or carefree. Too bad you missed this one."
"No thanks. Not interested. Just a bunch of deoxyribonucleic acid, dopamine, and hormones. I'd rather spend time in the lab—or sleeping."
"Sleep, sleep, sleep—that's all you ever do. Such a pure lifestyle... Oh! Speaking of which, I heard you've never called a sex doll, never used hosts or hostesses, never touched addictive substances, and don't binge on black braindances. Hobbies? Fishing? Eating, fighting, paperwork, lab work, hiding at home watching antique anime... God, what kind of fossil are you?"
Michiko's iris flickered with data streams as she clutched her forehead.
Apparently, she'd just accessed Vela's company activity logs.
Vela shot her a sideways glance.
Rumors and gossip within the company? Vela had caught wind of them, even if she didn't care. It didn't matter. She had no interest.
An implant is just an implant. She wasn't about to stick some strange object into her body just to then stab it into someone else. No thanks.
She'd rather spend time in the lab.
Experiencing the process of adapting and integrating technologies from countless worlds—feeling the joy as something took shape in her hands, then refining it, upgrading it, surpassing the original design—
Even better than savoring the sweetness of power—was the process of seizing more, possessing more, striving for more. In this pursuit to meet power, embrace it, and become authority itself, the world became her canvas to paint.
"Tsk tsk... Such an inexperienced little bunny. I'm seriously worried you'll fall for some pretty boy trap from Militech or Washington."
Do I look like someone ruled by hormones?
Noticing the you must be joking expression on Vela's face, Michiko burst out laughing.
She got up, took a classic tumbler from the tray on the coffee table, added ice, poured in some whiskey, and offered it to Vela like a peace offering or playful bribe.
That round of teasing between sisters had, surprisingly, melted away much of the solemnity born of impending war. The atmosphere between Vela and Michiko became more relaxed and natural.
After a brief moment of peace—
"Arizona's Secretary of State was cornered and executed at home by your people. New Mexico's Secretary was assassinated during a state assembly debate with Kurt Hansen. The retired former governor of Southern California killed himself out of guilt. Nevada's riots have escalated—their state assembly was stormed..."
Michiko took a sip of whiskey to clear her throat, then pointed to the segmented news feed on the holoscreen.
In the footage, the Phoenix residential district where the Secretary's mansion once stood was now a warzone.
Aside from a few private security forces and some dutiful cops, there wasn't a single sign of PHXPD, the fire department—or anything else. Well, except the swarm of Trauma Team AVs racing into the neighborhood, their engines whirring loudly.
Arasaka's Special Assault Forces, seen in the media footage, had already begun a steady, orderly withdrawal.
"Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, Oregon—the entire western region is in chaos..."
With time, more and more breaking news flashed across the screen. The Free States' independence issue was being laid bare for all to see. Even Michiko couldn't help but click her tongue in amazement.
"So, what did you promise them?"
In response, Vela's lips curved into a graceful arc. Turning her head, she replied, "I merely showed them a case study—a future where their families and legacies can survive, where Washington won't purge them, and where longevity is possible."
To be honest, Vela had focused her planning on Arizona and New Mexico. But she underestimated the power of example. The ripple effect was real: states that were meant to be bystanders—like Nevada—spontaneously began their own independence movements.
The truth was, the western states had long suffered under Washington's tyranny.
They'd wanted to rebel for ages. They'd just needed someone to lead the way.
Look at the New United States flag: fifteen stars and stripes. One large silver star, fourteen small ones.
Only the East Coast states were deemed the "silver stars," the insiders. The rest? Heh. Cannon fodder and internal markets.
Now, after Vela reasoned with them, appealed to their emotion, tempted them with benefits, and threatened them with force—she'd ignited a cascade. Everyone was getting restless.
And Arasaka's backing—its tiger hide—was as dazzling as it was terrifying.
Especially now that the old emperor, Saburo Arasaka, had roared back into power.
The combination of Saburo and Arasaka, with all its bloated legacy, was enough to send shockwaves. People overestimated Arasaka's current strength—and its resolve.
Hansen and his Barghest forces, having now been absorbed into Arasaka's fold, served perfectly as both vanguard and propaganda tool.
All of this compelled regional factions—once neutral—to take a side, especially when their former Free Alliance peers started picking teams.
"You've got more cards to play, don't you."
Michiko watched Vela rapidly entering commands, switching video feeds, accessing military data lists—and spoke, certain.
Then she saw Vela's smiling eyes.
"Guess."
Vela stood up, stretched comfortably, and downed her whiskey in one go.
Hands clasped behind her back, she stared at the AI-enhanced holoscreen, where newly recognized terms were being appended in real time.
Truthfully, even she hadn't expected things to escalate this smoothly. The scale was far beyond what she'd anticipated.
Clearly, Myers—and that fifteen-star banner of hers—was loathed in the western states.
But at this point, retreat was never Vela's style.
Let the entire West Coast burn.
"Prepare the car," Vela called out.
"Heading back to Night City?" Michiko asked.
"Nope." A calm smile spread across Vela's face as she snapped her fingers. "West."
West of Los Angeles. The Pacific Ocean?
Michiko froze.
"Wait—you didn't mean to call for..."
...
Washington State, Seattle.
On a rooftop of a suburban apartment building, Jimmy—the Supervisor of Arasaka Night City's Special Assault Unit, formerly a Deputy Officer of the Security Bureau—stood, peering out at the chaotic city through a high-magnification tactical scope.
"Director Vela never said the scale would be this huge."
He tapped his head lightly and took a deep breath.
He was still waiting for the go.
With the western states erupting and Lazarus' armored vanguard now officially clashing with Hansen's Barghest forces in New Mexico—with dozens dead—the headlines were dominating every major news outlet.
The pressure had reached his level.
Thump, thump.
When Jimmy realized the entire West Coast was going up in flames, he felt his heart pounding in his chest.
Not fear—exhilaration. The thrill of uncertainty and monumental action.
Are we really about to go all-in?
As if in answer—beep beep.
[Vela: Begin.]
A short command. Jimmy's expression turned grave.
"The order's in. Tell the old guard—
It's time. Raise the banner."