A few days after containment, I arrive personally.
A Lambda‑class T‑4a imperial shuttle descends through low cloud cover, its wings folding into landing position with mechanical precision. The moment the hull settles, my Red Hand Death Troopers deploy—nine of them, armored, disciplined, lethal. Perimeter secured in seconds. Motion sensors sweep. Reality anchors hum. No chances taken.
Only after the area is locked down do I step out.
Waiting nearby is the commander of the Nine‑Tailed Fox. His posture is rigid, professional, eyes sharp despite the fatigue. The report is immediate and concise.
The factory is secured.No active production lines.All summoning arrays neutralized.All contracts interrupted mid‑cycle.
And most importantly—
James Anderson is alive.
Captured while attempting to flee through a sealed auxiliary corridor, carrying ledgers bound in skin and inked with thaumaturgical formulas. The man looks smaller than the legends suggested. Older. Fragile. Still dangerous.
Killing him would be easy.
But knowledge like his is never wasted.
I order immediate transfer to a high‑security Foundation site. Interrogation first. Extraction of every scrap of information—ritual logic, factory schematics, supply chains, metaphysical loopholes. Death comes after usefulness ends. That is mercy enough.
With that settled, I begin the tour.
The factory is vast—far larger inside than outside geometry allows. Iron catwalks hang over assembly pits etched with runes. The walls themselves pulse faintly, as if remembering every scream ever uttered within them.
I am introduced to the anomalous weapons produced here.
Blades that sharpen themselves on fear.Firearms that reload by draining lifespan.Artillery shells that rewrite probability at the impact site.Machines that only function when fed vows, memories, or names that once mattered.
Every object here carries a price tag written in suffering.
Some items are sealed behind triple‑layer containment—too unstable, too predatory. Others are dormant now, inert without contracts to fuel them. I make mental notes, cataloging each artifact not as a weapon, but as a threat vector.
This place never created tools.
It created debts.
As the tour concludes, I stand at the heart of the factory—the central forge, silent at last. Whatever intelligence once watched from within feels distant now, restrained, furious.
Good.
This place will never operate again.
Not for profit.Not for power.Not for anyone.
The Foundation did not come here to bargain.
It came to take ownership of something that should never be allowed to choose its price again.