The sterile white interrogation room, moments before a place of suffocating psionic pressure, was suddenly breached by a sound that defied Banisher protocol: chaos. A harsh, synthesized alarm—not a fire drill, but a system-wide integrity alert—blared from a hidden speaker, followed by a cold, automated voice.
"Red Protocol: Information Security Breach. All VDC assets, secure your data nodes. Citadel lockdown is now in effect."
Operative Commander Elara, the Banisher Psionic Specialist, didn't flinch, but Aisha felt the shift in her energy. The focused, needle-point probe on Aisha's mind instantly retracted, replaced by a massive, uncontrolled surge of Elara's psionic senses as she cast a wide net, tasting the ambient panic of the Citadel.
"The entire command structure is... screaming," Elara whispered, her vacant eyes widening slightly, not in fear, but in cold, academic fascination. She stood, her Psionic Mesh suit shimmering as it recalibrated to the new threat level. The interrogation was over. Aisha, who moments ago was the most significant threat in Elara's world, was now just noise.
"Your deception, Operative Aisha, has become... irrelevant in the face of this," Elara stated, her voice returning to its flat monotone. "The data you stole is already public, or at least, public enough to trigger the network defenses. You have failed to contain the truth, or you have succeeded in weaponizing it. Either way, you are no longer the priority."
Elara gestured to the door, which hissed open. "You are confined to Sub-Level 2. Do not attempt to leave the Banisher Citadel. Do not attempt to contact Asset Kwandezi. You are now a potential flight risk, and a secondary suspect in the largest data breach this Citadel has seen since its founding. Go."
Aisha didn't need to be told twice. She stood, her body trembling not from fear, but from the adrenaline of a successful gamble. She had just started a civil war with a data file. She walked out of the interrogation room into a scene of controlled pandemonium.
The polished obsidian corridors of the Banisher Citadel, usually empty, were now filled with Aegis-suited guards running, not in a panic, but with the brutal efficiency of a system purging a virus. Red alert lights pulsed along the floor, casting grotesque shadows. They weren't fighting a Void-borne; they were fighting a ghost in their own machine.
Aisha moved with the crowd, her head down, just another operative returning to her station. She was terrified, but her instincts kept her moving, analyzing. The lockdown was a blessing and a curse. It protected her from Elara's immediate scrutiny, but it also trapped her in the lion's den. She made it back to her luxurious apartment on Sub-Level 2, the door hissing shut behind her. She was safe, for now, completely isolated.
The Quarantine of a Monster
Deep below, in the windowless, sound-dampened cell of Sub-Level 3, Kwandezi felt the shift. The constant, oppressive hum of the energy dampeners—a frequency he had spent days learning to counter—suddenly changed. It intensified, its pitch raising by a full octave, becoming a jarring, painful thrum that vibrated in his bones.
They are afraid, the Void Host noted, its voice curious inside his skull. The insects are rattling their own cage. Their fear is a tangible, delicious energy. It makes their technology sloppy.
Kwandezi's off-the-charts instincts agreed, but for different reasons. This wasn't a sloppy panic; it was a focused escalation of containment. They were tightening the leash on all their assets. His guards hadn't come for his routine check. The nutrient dispenser hadn't activated. He was cut off.
He stood from his cot, drawing his twin shortswords. The blades, now perfected by his Ultimate Transmutation, felt impossibly light, vibrating with a cold, perfect energy. The dampening field was trying to break that perfection, to force the molecules back into their mundane, flawed state.
Kwandezi wouldn't let it. He saw this chaos not as a threat, but as an opportunity. The Citadel's sensors would be focused on the data breach, not on the precise molecular fluctuations in his cell.
"They gave me time to practice," he whispered to the empty room.
He sheathed one sword and held the other aloft. He closed his eyes and focused his will inward, applying the same principle of Ultimate Transmutation not to the steel, but to his own Aegis combat mesh. It was a non-living object, fused to his skin, and he would perfect it.
He pushed his energy into the synthetic weave. The suit, designed to be a lightweight sensor mesh, began to change. Its molecular structure tightened, the synthetic fibers aligning into a denser, more resilient lattice. He was hardening the suit, making it momentarily as strong as the Corundum-Steel door, reinforcing its weak points, optimizing its energy flow.
The effort was immense. The Void Host surged, loving the sensation of creation, of improving the vessel. Sweat beaded on Kwandezi's brow, and his muscles seized under the strain, but he held the transmutation. He was refining his armor, preparing for a fight he knew was coming. His instincts told him that the next person through that door wouldn't be a food dispenser; it would be Zaire, coming to clean house.
The Citadel of Logic
Miles away, in the Scholar Family's Chapter-State, the atmosphere was one of quiet, intense analysis. The Scholar Citadel, known as "The Archive," was not a fortress of obsidian or steel, but a sprawling campus of white, sterile towers that hummed with the power of massive data servers and quantum computers.
In the central analysis nexus, Chief Archivist Solis—the de facto Chapter Captain of the Scholars—reviewed the data Femi had uploaded. Solis was a thin, frail man who existed inside a complex Aegis filtration suit, his body too weak to survive the ambient Void energy of the world. His power was his mind.
"The data is verified," Solis said, his voice a dry rasp, amplified by his suit's speaker. He was addressing his small council of analysts, their faces illuminated by holographic data streams. "The Ironclad financial bleed is confirmed. The Banisher complicity in suppressing containment protocols is confirmed. The evidence of Thorne's execution order, signed by a proxy of the Banisher High Council, is confirmed."
One of the analysts, a young woman with a data-port visible on her temple, looked up. "Archivist, this is treason of the highest order. This data, if released, will shatter public faith in the VDC. It will cause mass panic, civil unrest, and potentially a full-scale Void-borne breach in the destabilized territories. The system will collapse."
"Precisely," Solis said. "A system built on a flawed foundation must be purged. However, a direct accusation from the Scholar Family would be seen as a political power-grab. The Banishers would silence us, and the other families would let them, branding us traitors."
"So we do nothing?" the analyst asked, horrified.
"No," Solis replied, his eyes cold and logical. "We do not 'do' anything. We verify. The data is unstable. We require a third-party audit to confirm its authenticity against military protocols."
Solis turned to a new screen, opening a secure, anonymous data-line. "The Storm-Walker Family (Chapter 4) operates on a code of martial honor. They despise political maneuvering but are loyal to the idea of the Veil, if not its leadership. They are also... predictable."
He isolated one piece of evidence—the most damning, least complex file: General Marcus Thorne's execution order for Kwandezi's mother, signed by the Banisher proxy.
"We will leak this one file to the Storm-Walker command structure," Solis ordered. "We will not provide the financial data. We will provide the moral data. The Storm-Walkers will react to the dishonor of the Banishers executing a fellow VDC operative's family. They will become the loud, angry sword. We will remain the quiet, objective hand that holds the truth."
He hit the 'send' key. The data-storm had its first official casualty. The VDC was now at war with itself.
The Political Battlefield
Back in the Banisher Citadel, the lockdown was absolute. In a high-level command center, Captain Zaire stood beside Captain Akanni, who had been summoned from his own sector.
"You let this happen, Akanni," Zaire said, his voice a low, lethal hum. His polarized visor was fixed on a map showing the data-breach alerts. "You brought that anomaly here. You pushed the system. Now the Scholars have the data, and the entire network is compromised."
"I brought a weapon," Akanni countered, his own massive form radiating impatience. "A weapon that just proved the Banisher's pet executioner, Thorne, was a traitor. This data leak isn't a threat; it's a cleansing. The rot is in the open."
"You are a fool," Zaire said, turning to face him. "You think this is about rot? This is about order. The public trusts the Veil because we are absolute. This data shows weakness. The Void-borne will overrun us when the public panics. The system is the protection, regardless of its flaws."
Before Akanni could retort, Zaire's private comms pinged. He listened, his body going rigid.
"The Storm-Walkers... Chapter 4... they've just received a copy of the Thorne execution file," Zaire said, his voice losing its iron control for a fraction of a second. "The Scholars are playing us against each other. They've escalated."
Zaire hit a single button on his console. "Commander Elara. The asset, Kwandezi. He is the source of this chaos. He is the symbol of this rebellion. The Council will want him neutralized before the Storm-Walkers can use him as a political martyr. Go to Sub-Level 3. Take your team. Begin the Psychic Scourge Protocol. Find out what he knows. If he resists... cleanse the asset."
Zaire cut the comm. He looked at Akanni. "The time for your 'weapon' is over, Akanni. The time for Banisher protocol is now."