Herman woke before sunrise, as he always did, his eyes opening not to comfort but to cold, compacted earth. He didn't move immediately. For a few seconds, he simply lay there, staring upward at the faint outline of his tent ceiling, listening to the quiet stirrings of a camp that never truly slept. It wasn't unpleasant. It wasn't pleasant either. It was simply… normal.
He pushed himself up with a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders once as the stiffness settled in. He could have requested better accommodations. No one would have denied him. But that wasn't the point. Leadership, in his view, wasn't about distance—it was about presence. If his soldiers slept on the ground and ate rations bars, then so would he.
Speaking of which.
Herman reached for one of the grey nutrient blocks resting beside him and broke off a piece, chewing without enthusiasm. The taste hadn't improved with time. If anything, it had become worse—not because it changed, but because he had grown increasingly aware of how unnatural it was.
"I swear…" he muttered under his breath, swallowing with visible effort, "why is the scientist's name redacted? Even from me."
It would have been useful information. Motivating, even. A face to blame. A name to curse. Something for the troops to rally around.
Instead, there was nothing.
The Minister of Technology had ensured that. Every trace of the creator had been erased—scrubbed from records, deleted from archives, buried so thoroughly that even Herman couldn't access it. Officially, it was for their protection.
Unofficially?
Herman snorted quietly.
"With over seven billion people ready to force-feed them their own creation…" he muttered, "I almost understand."
Still didn't make it less irritating.
He finished the bar, chased it with a piece of hard candy—lemon, thankfully—and stood. The candy helped. It didn't fix the taste, but it made it bearable.
That alone made it invaluable.
Stepping out of his sleeping quarters, Herman pulled aside the flap of his "office," which was little more than a slightly larger tent containing a foldable table that protested under anything heavier than paperwork. It wasn't much, but it served its purpose.
And today, it held something waiting for him.
A report.
Herman paused, then stepped inside and picked it up.
The moment he began reading, his mood improved.
Slowly at first.
Then noticeably.
By the time he reached the second page, a smile had formed. By the third, it had widened into something far more satisfied.
"Well now…" he murmured.
The report was precise. Clean. Efficient. It detailed Arin's infiltration into the heartland with almost insulting clarity—how easily he had entered, how effortlessly he had bypassed defenses that should have been impenetrable, and how two high-ranking officials had been eliminated inside a government-secured building as if they were unguarded civilians.
Herman flipped a page.
The commentary was… pointed.
The outer defenses were described as "laughable." The inner defenses received "praise"—though it was so steeped in sarcasm that it might as well have been an insult. Two guards per kilometer. That alone spoke volumes.
Then came the section on the unloading station.
Herman chuckled.
"Efficient… and completely exposed," he read aloud. "Wonderful combination."
But the real brilliance wasn't just in the content.
It was in the delivery.
Herman recognized the distribution pattern immediately. The report hadn't been handed directly to officials. Instead, it had been placed—quietly, deliberately—into the hands of individuals everyone knew were intelligence assets. Spies.
Useful ones.
The kind that ensured information spread without anyone having to admit responsibility.
"Elegant," Herman said, clearly pleased. "Embarrassing for them, deniable for everyone."
The European governments would have no choice but to acknowledge it internally while publicly distancing themselves. They could blame leaks, foreign interference—anything but the truth.
And yet, the message would still reach exactly who it needed to.
Herman set the report down, his smile lingering.
"They'll transfer the points now," he said confidently. "I dare them to stall again."
More importantly, it would force improvement.
"They've gotten complacent," he added, shaking his head slightly. "Not even manning the outer walls…"
That, more than anything, irritated him.
Still, the message had been delivered.
And judging by the report, it had been delivered perfectly.
"This is a warning."
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Orazio Vassevilliers sat at the head of the table, his posture straight, his presence commanding without effort. As the head of the Vassevilliers house—the oldest of the great families still active—his voice carried weight by default. Their lineage traced back to 500 AD, and with that history came an influence that few could rival.
Around him sat the representatives of other great houses, gathered in a council that had only come into existence after the Second World War. Before that, they had been rivals. Competitors.
Enemies.
But time—and necessity—had changed that.
Fighting each other had become inefficient.
Now, they governed their interests together.
"To explain why you say that," asked the patriarch of House Pettmont, leaning forward slightly, "you'll need more than a statement."
Orazio inclined his head slightly.
"Of course."
He rested his hands on the table, fingers interlaced.
"We are all aware of what Marshal Arun has done in India," he began. "He removed a significant player. Impressive, certainly. But not decisive."
A faint sneer touched his lips.
"He didn't eliminate the core of their family. Which means retaliation is inevitable. Predictable. Manageable."
There were nods around the table.
"We do not fear that," Orazio continued. "We can anticipate it. Delay it. Neutralize it."
He paused.
"This… is different."
The shift in tone was immediate.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
"This requires no buildup. No warning. No escalation," he said quietly. "Only an order."
Silence followed.
"Let us set aside the outer defenses," Orazio went on, his tone turning faintly dismissive. "We've all seen them. They serve their purpose—barely. Adequate against goblins, perhaps. Though even that is questionable."
A few faint smirks appeared.
"Those can be improved," he added. "And should be. For the sake of appearances, if nothing else."
His gaze sharpened.
"But the true concern lies within the heartland itself."
He gestured, and a projection appeared above the table.
A single image.
Grainy. Distorted.
A figure.
Hanging upside down from a balcony.
The room reacted instantly—sharp intakes of breath, subtle shifts in posture.
"That," Orazio said, his voice low, "is the only clear image we have."
He let that sink in.
"We analyzed every anomaly. Every disturbance. Our systems reconstructed a probable path. And yet…" His expression darkened slightly. "This is all we found."
One image.
No face.
No identity.
Nothing usable.
"You see the problem," he continued. "This individual entered the heartland, bypassed every layer of security, eliminated two protected officials, and left."
A pause.
"And we cannot even confirm who it was."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
"This is not an attack," Orazio said at last. "It is a message."
His eyes swept across the table.
"He is telling us that he can reach us."
No one disagreed.
"He is also telling us," Orazio added, "that we should stop interfering."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Gustaw Pettmont exhaled sharply. "Why did we even agree to test him in the first place?" he said, his tone edged with frustration. "It wasn't as if he was wrong. The reports are clear. Trying to manipulate their luck is… idiotic."
"Optimistic at best," someone muttered.
"Suicidal at worst," Gustaw finished.
Orazio nodded slowly. "We all understood that," he said. "But others did not."
His expression hardened.
"Corporations. Upstart families. Opportunists who saw an opening and believed they could replace us."
A faint sneer returned.
"They needed guidance."
"And now?" someone asked.
"Now they need correction," Orazio replied calmly.
There were nods of agreement.
"I agree," said a man with a refined English accent. "Those who overstep should be reminded of their place."
"Good," Orazio said. "Then we are aligned."
He leaned back slightly.
"As for the assassin…" he continued, his tone shifting once more, this time carrying something close to respect, "we have identified a likely origin."
That drew immediate attention.
"One of the old lineages," he said. "One we believed extinct."
A murmur passed through the room.
"To think they still exist…" someone whispered.
"They do," Orazio confirmed. "And they remember."
He paused.
"They followed that house out of obligation, not convenience. A debt owed generations ago. One that has not been forgotten."
Silence settled again.
"Then we leave them alone," Gustaw said finally.
"Yes," Orazio agreed. "We do."
There was no hesitation.
No debate.
They all understood.
There was no value in provoking something they could neither track nor defend against reliably.
"And besides," Orazio added, a faint, cold smile forming, "there will always be others foolish enough to try."
A few quiet chuckles followed.
Not out of humor.
But recognition.
Let the fools test the unseen blade.
They would watch.
And learn.