Elias's stride through the streets of Vienna carried a subtle power, as though the very air was different now that the system had returned to him.
But when he finally withdrew from the public eye, retreating to the seclusion of his rented quarters, he opened the interface again—and the exhilaration faltered.
Where once the credit flow had been a roaring river, it was now a meager stream.
Daily Income: 123 credits.
He stared at the number, disbelieving at first.
Before the upgrade, his mines and harvesters had brought nearly 800 credits per day, a steady swell that had sustained his plans.
Now, after the leap forward, he was crippled.
He ran through the calculations again and again.
The system did not lie.
Ore that yesterday had been valued generously was now diminished, nearly worthless in comparison to the new scale of his economy.
The minor amounts of Iron, Silver and Gold were still valued, but in comparison the stones hauled became worthless, copper, and tin became valued the same as stones previously—pennies now in a market that demanded fortunes.
And then came the true blow.
System Notice: Rank III Upgrade Available.
Cost: 50,000,000 credits.
The number glared at him, obscene in its magnitude.
Fifty million.
He worked the math, furious, his quill scratching across paper as he broke it down into days, years, centuries.
At his current rate of 123 credits per day, it would take more than a thousand years to reach the next rank.
Even if he doubled, tripled, quadrupled his output, the time scale stretched beyond the lifetime of some empires.
It was deliberate.
It had to be.
The system was provoking him.
It was not designed for stasis.
To remain still was death.
It demanded growth—new bases, new expansions, exploitation of fresh lands.
Every upgrade, every leap forward, forced him outward, to seize more, to command more.
Elias set down his quill, flexing his hand as if to banish the tension from it.
His gray eyes hardened, no longer clouded by the relief of the morning.
He understood.
The system was not a gift.
It was a challenge.
A gauntlet hurled at his feet.
He could not remain content with Montenegro.
He could not rely on the steady trickle of Balkan ore.
He must expand, conquer, reshape the very map of Europe if he was ever to reach Rank III.
For now, he would temper his ambition.
But already, the pieces of the game were shifting in his mind.
The Ottoman Empire.
That was the next war.
The Balkans, a chessboard free-folk and imperial soldiers, was the crucible where he would test his 1870s arsenal against an empire that still marched in the step of centuries past.
His bases in Montenegro would become the nucleus of resistance, not only defending but spreading, each liberated valley and fortress becoming another node of power, another place to plant the iron seed of his system.
Satellite bases.
That was the key.
Every liberated zone could be transformed—not merely a foothold, but a living machine.
Mines feeding into refineries, refineries feeding the constant hunger of factories, and barracks, all linked by rails.
A web of steel and fire stretching across the Balkans, until the Ottomans were bled dry and driven back across the Bosporus, giving way to the Rise of a Balkan Empire, a new rising great power to join Europe stage alongside the Austro-Hungarian, German, French, Russian and British Empires.
But time was not idle.
The Montenegrins would rise soon, as history dictated, and when they did, they would receive more than promises, from the Shadows Elias would ensure a grand victory against their former overlords, doubling or tripling the tiny nations available landmass.
Elias would give their enemies thunder.
Bolt-action rifles in his forces hands, mortars behind their lines, and Gatling guns that would mow down any Janissary or cavalry fool enough to charge, while the Prince would take the credit, Elias would be busy spreading his ideology, not facist or communist, his created ideology would be a mixture of Authoritarianism, mixed with Meritocracy, and Progressivism.
The closest political affiliation he could coin for his chosen path would be Neo-Traditionalism
He could already picture the first battle: an Ottoman column marching into the high passes, confident in their numbers and tradition.
And then, from the cliffs, from the valleys, the fire of a future war unleashed upon them.
Rifles cracking ten times as fast as their muskets, shells plunging in arcs into their ranks, and the stuttering roar of Gatlings ripping through flesh and courage alike.
The thought almost brought a smile.
Almost.
For beneath the vision was the weight of reality.
123 credits a day.
The number gnawed at him.
He could not allow himself to forget it.
Without expansion, without conquest, his mighty arsenal was nothing more than a sword slowly rusting in its scabbard.
The system had shackled his future to growth.
To pause was to perish.
He stood, pacing the length of the room, his boots striking the wooden floor with sharp precision.
Vienna bustled beyond his window, its citizens blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing.
They thought in terms of diplomacy, balance of power, reforms whispered in parliament halls.
They did not understand what was coming.
Elias did.
The nineteenth century had been given a false dawn, and he was the one to bring its true sunrise—whether the world wanted it or not.
He sat once more, his hand steady now as he drafted new orders to his lieutenants in Montenegro.
Phase One: Upgrade.
Every veteran squad that had carried musket-rifles was to be retrained and rearmed with bolt-actions as quickly as credits would allow.
Artillery and Gatling guns would not be trained for now, since if they were discovered it would be a disaster if news got out.
Phase Two: Expansion.
As soon as Ottoman forces moved against Montenegro, every victory would be followed by construction.
A liberated pass would not be abandoned; it would become a fortress, a depot, a base.
The land itself would feed the machine of his system.
Phase Three: Rail.
As credits allowed, rails would be laid from the heart of Montenegro outward, each length of track a vein carrying blood to the extremities of his growing power.
All the while receiving funding from the Montenegro government itself to finance this endevour, at a reduced cost of course since the principality would not be capable of paying such a price, but still wanting a stake in this grand endevour and the ability to boost their own economy by receiving a portion of the rails earning for their own treasury.
It was not enough to win battles.
He had to build a network.
A shadow empire, one that owed its allegiance not to any crown, but to him.
And when the Ottomans were broken, when Montenegro was free and the Balkans ablaze with rebellion, he would step onto the world stage again.
The Great Powers would think him merely a strategist, a foreign agent stirring trouble.
They would not see the truth until it was too late—that the future itself had already chosen its master.
Elias set his quill down at last.
His notebook was filled, another plan born.
The fear of the day before, the hollow dread of being abandoned by the system, lingered faintly in his bones.
But now it was tempered by clarity.
He could not stop.
He would not stop.
Fifty million credits was not a wall.
It was a horizon.
And Elias had every intention of reaching it, surpassing it and striving for the goals that came after that were surely to be of even greater amounts.
He extinguished the lamp, the soft glow fading to darkness.
Beyond the window, Vienna slept, unaware that in one rented room, a man had already begun to reshape their century.
Tomorrow, he would walk the streets again, play the part of the idle traveler.
But tonight, Elias dreamed of rails stretching across mountains, of thunder rolling in valleys, and of empires brought to their knees.
The game had changed.
And he would never play small again.