The map glowed differently now. Where once Arthur tracked only dynasties and corporations, a new layer of influence had emerged—the undercurrents of society.
Foxy smirked as she flicked through stock market reports. "You've got the arteries now, Emperor. But arteries mean nothing without veins. Families flow wealth, yes—but what about the common people who obey them? Their workers, their soldiers, their unions? If they resist you, the blood will clot."
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "Then we bleed them into me as well."
And so began his campaign into the veins of loyalty.
In Detroit, Arthur approached the decaying automobile unions. Where old aristocrats had failed to modernize, he offered futuristic factories—powered by Eva's digital innovations and automated logistics. In exchange, every worker pledged allegiance not to their bankrupt union leaders but to the Ashford banner.
In Atlanta, he transformed dying music labels into cultural empires, putting Candy's authority over sports and entertainment into the same flow. Rappers, athletes, and influencers became the veins of influence, ensuring that no culture in North America beat outside his rhythm.
Meanwhile, Bella expanded his hold over food supply chains, making fast food giants and gourmet houses alike dependent on his imports. "Feed them," she told Arthur with a sly smile, "and they will never fight you. Hunger bends even the proudest knee."
But while Arthur was building loyalty from the ground up, the Old Guard struck.
One night, as Arthur finalized a deal with the Ruiz oil family in Houston, the lights flickered. Nora stiffened instantly, her instincts sharper than any bodyguard's. Within seconds, masked operatives stormed the penthouse—mercenaries, armed with military-grade rifles and silent precision.
Arthur didn't flinch. He stood, letting the Ashford crest burn into the minds of his enemies as his Empresses moved.
Roxy broke their communications with a cyber-surge.
Jessie's control over global security allowed her to anticipate their formations.
Candy hurled a steel bar across the room like a javelin, striking one attacker down.
But Arthur himself ended it.
When the leader of the strike team raised his weapon, Arthur's voice crashed down like a king's decree. "Kneel."
The System reinforced his command, and for a brief moment, the mercenary's body trembled, caught between free will and an ancient instinct to obey power greater than himself.
He dropped his gun.
Later, interrogation revealed the truth—the mercenaries had been paid by The Old Guard. They had underestimated Arthur, believing him just a financier with bodyguards, not a sovereign with empresses at his side.
Arthur looked out at the Houston skyline that night, firelight from destroyed buildings flickering in the distance.
"The arteries carry wealth. The veins carry loyalty. And now…" He smirked, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. "…the blood of my enemies flows into me as well."
Nora tightened her grip on his hand, her voice a quiet oath: "And when the Old Guard bleeds dry, nothing will stand between you and the throne."
Arthur smiled. "No, Nora. Nothing at all."