MM - Chapter 202 - THAT LITTLE A$$HOLE

Master Torune, Leader of CronGate

- Carter City -

Torune’s trip from his new airport to CronGate’s current headquarters was a short one. He spent those few minutes in disappointment. Carter City was nothing — a skeleton compared to the territory's capital, Sandstone City, its populace tiny, and disgracefully uneducated in the only field that mattered: the martial path. Carter’s sole legitimate claim to fame was the aerospace startup, Frontier. Soon, it as well would fall into Torune’s grasp.

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he breathed in fresh city air through the hovercar’s cracked window. While lacking the amenities he was accustomed to, there yet remained a silver lining; Carter represented a clean canvas upon which he would paint a masterpiece. His vision for the future was bright: a home beholden to none but himself, a people whose sole purpose was to worship him, an industrial behemoth funneling vital nutrients into the bottomless pit that was the journey to becoming a Grandmaster.

Here, he would ascend to godhood. But first, there were a few minor thorns that needed to be plucked.

“Is she ready?” Torune’s words were soft, almost gentle.

A dark-skinned man wearing an outdated fedora looked back at Torune through his LinQ's interface. “Yes, Master. There have been no further thoughts from her, despite doubling the dosage.”

“I see.” Torune had nothing more to say to his agent and ended the call. Alone, he muttered, “So, she truly believes I betrayed her first. How… pitiful.” Vitriolic anger simmered in his gullet. He had raised her from birth, yet she so easily lost trust. Shying away from the emotion was out of the question, for it was merely another drop of fuel driving him toward his ultimate goal.

The hovercar soon arrived, and Torune’s door was opened by a man bowing fully in half. The man was not alone in greeting their master. A thousand dedicated disciples were in attendance, all gazing down at their own boots. Torune strode by them without registering their existence before passing through the front door of the embarrassingly small temporary headquarters.

A young woman waited inside. She bowed as well, then rose of her own volition, knowing how little Torune enjoyed wasting time. “Master, this way, if it pleases you.”

He didn’t outwardly respond, following the young woman deeper into the building. Torune’s enhanced perceptions had no trouble picking out the bustle of activity that only stilled in the direct vicinity of his presence. His people were hard at work, which was good. There was much to be done to bring Carter under heel.

They reached a solid steelphene door, where the man with the fedora waited alongside Marco Salvatore—Torune’s only nephew and godson. Both bowed respectfully and spoke in unison. “Master.” Marco, having failed severely multiple times since arriving in Carter, remained bowed while his companion rose.

“I attempted one last time; no change. She remains resilient to my probes.”

Torune’s hard, grey eyes swiveled to the thick door, then back to the man with the fedora. “Leave the rest to me, Harlan.”

“As you wish.” Harlan tipped his hat and stepped out of the way.

Torune’s gentle push exerted more than a thousand newtons of force, easily causing the heavy door to creak open. A dark room was revealed, and on its far wall, strung up in heavy chains, was a lithe woman with thin lips cracked from dehydration. She groaned weakly, turning away as the hallway light splashed across exposed skin.

Seeing her ignited the fury always simmering just beneath the surface. Torune crossed the intervening space in a single step. His words were stretched and soaked in venom as he towered over her. “Vaneese. My daughter. I always feared you would be led astray by a man. Who would have thought my premonitions would come true in such a manner?”

“Tricks and lies, tricks and lies, tricks and lies,” Vaneese muttered while vainly attempting to shake her head. The drugs they’d used to loosen her tongue and thoughts were potent, leaving her a husk of her usual lethal vibrancy.

Torune snatched her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Having seen the vods of her many battles in ZionLine, he understood well the meaning behind her denial. Torune spoke with complete conviction, their faces millimeters apart. “Alaric was never one of mine. He fooled you, used your own intelligence against you. This time, daughter, you outsmarted yourself.”

Pain flashed across Vaneese’s features. She vainly attempted to shake her head again, but her master’s might was impossible to resist. “More lies. I saw it. Our style. Our flaws. Our counters.”

Torune wished he could take credit for Alaric’s martial style. While it appeared to be based in the same Sharatka that Torune taught, there were sublime differences. It pained him to admit it, but Alaric’s style was better in several ways, steeped in exquisite brutality, efficiency, and fluidity. In particular, the acrobatic movements Raine KongRu used against Master Jedidiah still shocked Torune whenever he rewatched the Vod of their duel. It was obvious Alaric and KongRu were connected—likely fellow disciples of Grandmaster Meriot.

The way KongRu had masterfully used the environment to avoid a significantly more powerful foe was not something Torune could take credit for. The fact Vaneese couldn't see that only showed how far she had deluded herself.

“You are too wise in your own eyes, daughter. If you only looked, you would see clearly.”

“No, no, no, no.” Vaneese whimpered. “You forced that pig on me. You betrayed me.”

A slap rang loud and clear in the room, and blood splashed the floor. "Watch your words, my child." Torune snorted at her wide-eyed shock, glad the drugs weren't reducing her sensation of pain. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed at his only surviving relative. “Marco is indeed a pig, a fool, and a failure. But he is also my blood; disrespecting him is no different than disrespecting me." Torune sighed, a foul taste in his mouth just from the thought of having to explain himself. "I pushed you together to protect you both. If your thoughts were on each other, then they would not stray to the outside.” He sighed deeply, “Perhaps if I had explained, this unfortunateness could have been avoided.”

In a movement so fast none present were able to perceive it, Torune spun back to Vaneese and plunged his hand straight through her chest. Bones snapped like putty beneath his fingers, and blood fountained to splash across the wall behind her. She released a gurgle, eyes flying wide as the proximity to death completely banished the drug-addled fog.

“M-master.” She coughed, unable to fully grasp the situation.

Torune left his arm buried inside her, lest she faint from blood loss. “Nothing we say or do can alter the past. You betrayed me, daughter.”

Vaneese looked between the arm buried in her chest and Torune twice before a bloodstained smile split her face. The viciousness he’d trained into her since birth shone as madness in her eyes. In her last moments, she was more beautiful than ever before. Vaneese released a coughing laugh, her whisper so faint Torune had to lean in to hear her final words.

“Damian will come. You have sealed your fate, foolish old bastard.” Vaneese fell limp, releasing what should have been her last breath.

Harlan nodded, fingers pressed firmly against the unconscious woman’s temple. “Superb work, Master. You managed to get it out of her after I failed for days.”

Torune didn’t know precisely what illusions Harlan had implanted in her head, but her pained expression at the end, full of utter betrayal, was haunting. “I am curious what she had planned.”

“A dead man’s switch. Over a hundred of them, in fact. Messages to be delivered to the Taffels with evidence connecting you to Astra Infernum. We have another day to prevent them, plenty of time if we move quickly.”

“Impressive foresight, as usual.” Torune sighed, gaze lingering on the unharmed and merely unconscious woman.

Harlan correctly interpreted Torune’s expression. “She won’t remember a thing, Master.”

“See that she does not. Bring her back two days, before Marco apprehended her. Release her, and ensure she stops all the messages. Carefully deactivate them but allow her to assume they are still active.” 

Harlan bowed as much as he could without releasing Vaneese. Torune left, and a look was enough to tell Marco to follow. “Has Grandmaster Meriot responded to our attempts to negotiate?”

“No, Master.”

Torune clenched his fists, attempting and failing to remain calm. “When Vaneese awakens, set her on cleaning up the mess she created.” Torune still couldn’t believe she had sided with assassins attacking a grandmaster in broad daylight. As far as attempts to put his life in danger went, this was undoubtedly one of the most daring. If Torune failed to properly appease the powers behind Alaric and Astra Infernum, his plans for the future would quickly come to an end.

Making matters worse was Damian Tafell of The Everlasting Phoenix Clan. The boy had a grudge to settle with Alaric, and Torune would have been a fool to not choose sides; it was the fate of all masters to be caught in the webs of grandmasters. There was simply nothing to be done but play allegiance to the more powerful party. And within the Amanath Territories, there was no greater party than that of the Everlasting Phoenix.

Talerra Tafell

- Onderon, Western Phoenix Territory -

Talerra's steps were steady and measured, swiftly carrying her through the meticulously manicured hallways of the Patriarch’s Pavilion, birthplace of the Phoenix Clan and seat of the Patriarch himself. Wide smartwall displays revealed the City of Onderon—a gargantuan megalopolis carved from whitewashed duracrete, clear soliglass, and ambition.

She was not alone, hovering close on the heels of Master Shanarra, the woman who had trained her since childhood, since the day of her mother’s passing. Together, they kept pace with the formidable presence of Grandmaster Elariel Tafell, seventh in the line of succession, and one of the most powerful women in the entire world. The air within the expansive mansion was charged with the gravitas of their destination: a clan conclave, the first in a decade.

Grandmasters—the very ground upon which nations were built. Among the three hundred known grandmasters on Earth, the Phoenix Clan claimed sixteen as its own—a testament to their power and influence. Today, all sixteen would be present. Each grandmaster within the Phoenix Clan was a sovereign unto themselves, controlling an entire territory within the United Territories of Amanath. To be in the presence of one was an honor; to be in the presence of them all was to stand at the heart of Talerra’s world.

They arrived not at a grand banquet hall, but a stark and functional room of darkest obsidian. There were no gilded arches or soaring banners; this was a place of business, not for hosting foreign dignitaries. This was where the heads of the family met to decide the fate of billions.

As they entered, Talerra’s eyes immediately scanned the room. It was arranged in a circle, and her brow furrowed. There were seventeen seats, not the expected sixteen. A quiet ripple of conversation filled the hall as grandmasters and their attendants took their places. Talerra recognized the subtle divisions in the room, the invisible lines of allegiance that defined the clan’s politics.

So far, three of the four major factions were present. The Elders were a collection of ambitious, yet unyielding traditionalists. Then there was the Progressive Faction, to which Grandmaster Elariel, and by extension Talerra, belonged. The Keepers were a faction more concerned with personal cultivation than mundane matters. All three sat apart, separated, yet part of a greater whole. The attending grandmasters' gazes rarely crossed, as if the political machinations of their peers were a tedious distraction from the true work of touching the martial paths they walked.

Elariel took her seat with grace; Talerra and Shanarra settled behind her. Talerra’s gaze was unwillingly drawn across the hall to Damian. He stood amidst the Elders’ Faction, a sneer plastered on his face. It was an expression that too perfectly matched his petty cruelties and unearned arrogance. He met her eyes, and the sneer widened into something disturbing. A cold dread washed through Talerra—a premonition that something terrible was about to unfold.

Several minutes later, a hush fell over the gathered factions as though they sensed something she could not. The final, and most powerful group arrived. The Loyalists—the unswerving sword and shield of the Patriarch—entered as one. They were the clan’s backbone, their loyalty absolute. At their head was the Patriarch himself, Tannis Tafell. His arrival was not grand; there was no need for fanfare once one reached his level. His quiet presence carried the weight of a star, for he was known as the man closest to becoming the next Old Monster, and that reputation was power enough.

Tannis’s eyes swept the room, his gaze seeming to bend the very air that it pierced. “Thank you all for coming,” his voice was calm, solemn in a way that raised Talerra's hackles. “Today is a day for celebration. You were all made aware of our newest seat. Grandmaster Shyee needs no introduction, yet I shall give her one anyway.”

He gestured to the side, and a woman appeared. She strode with powerful steps, taking the seventeenth seat. Even Talerra could feel the naked violence she exuded—the raw mental power of one who had recently broken through to grandmaster and did not yet have a firm grasp over what that meant. 

“As a peak master, Shyee emerged victorious in over three hundred sanctioned duels, earning the clan billions in land and resources. She has been, and will continue to be, a shining beacon of success to the younger generations.” Tannis’s joke earned the expected chuckles. Shyee was not young, though that would be impossible to tell from looking at her. It was simply that grandmasters did not think in terms of years, but in decades and centuries: what use did the immortal have for age?

A predatory light entered the Patriarch’s eyes. “As congratulations for her advancement, she will be permitted to face Grandmaster Tupont for control of Sandrosa. If she vanquishes him, the Phoenix will grow more grand than ever before.”

A murmur swept through the room. Talerra felt a chill, now understanding Tannis's despondency. Allowing a fresh grandmaster to challenge an established one, a veteran of countless battles, was little more than a death sentence wrapped in the guise of an opportunity. Yet that was precisely what it meant to walk the martial path. It was expected.

Tannis let the implications settle before continuing. “What many of you do not yet know is that Shyee broke through to grandmaster within ZionLine.”

The quiet murmuring exploded into excited chatter. The stoic Pathkeepers leaned forward, their detachment shattered. Any new method for advancing from peak master to grandmaster was an immeasurable treasure, a holy grail worthy of their full attention.

Tannis raised a hand, and silence returned instantly. “Which brings us to the purpose of today’s meeting.” He cast a pointed look at several of the Elders who, Talerra knew, had protested the loudest when Tannis first ordered the clan to begin migrating millions of its members into the virtual world. “If ZionLine is capable of facilitating the breakthrough to grandmaster, then it can do so for all the stages that come before. Faced with a populace that has access to such secrets, how are we to maintain our power?”

The question hung in the air, a declaration of the turmoil that had haunted the clan's leaders for weeks. Tannis’s steely gaze shifted to the speaker of the Loyalists, who shook his head, declining the chance to contribute. They would follow whatever Tannis chose, as usual. The Pathkeepers, on the back foot of current affairs as usual, also refused to comment.

At a nod from her Patriarch, Elariel stood to represent the Progressives. “We should continue to embrace ZionLine,” she declared, voice ringing with confidence. “Already, the disciples we have sent inside have shown remarkable growth. By the Patriarch’s wisdom, we made the first move. By staying two steps ahead of the masses, we will have no need to fear the rabble. As always, should they get out of line, we can simply crush them with overwhelming might. I propose we accelerate our efforts, sharing thetadrive headsets between disciples to boost incubation time until our production can meet demand. With these steps, the Phoenix Clan can and will become the dominant power across the globe.”

Tannis nodded, then looked to the Elders. Their representative, a man whose face was a mask of wrinkles, rose slowly. Damian’s disgusting grin grew wider behind him. “There can be no doubt that Grandmaster Elariel’s suggestion is the correct path,” the old man rasped. “However, ignoring potential threats is not how the Phoenix rose to greatness. My Patriarch, your humble and obedient great-grandson, Damian, has conceived of a most suitable solution to the problem of control. If you would permit him to speak of it from his own lips.”

Gasps echoed through the hall. Disciples, even potential scions in the line of succession such as Talerra and Damian, were meant to be unseen and unheard in a conclave of grandmasters. Snorting in the face of tradition, Tannis flicked a finger in assent.

Damian stepped forward, unable to contain his giddy, triumphant expression. His voice was as obnoxious as always, dripping with the foul whine of a spoiled brat. “Obviously, growing our power by utilizing ZionLine is perfect, but what is power without control?” He paused for dramatic effect. “If we cannot control the servers, then we must control the cattle attempting to access them. My suggestion is this: we push advancements in our proprietary LinQ technology until it can replicate the functions of the thetadrive headsets. Then, we outlaw the headsets and sell our LinQs as the only legal alternative.”

He looked around the room, eyes alight with vile purpose. “Of course, we’ll add a little something extra to our version. A back door. A means to ensure that anyone who has access to ZionLine doesn't get out of hand. Once we control the gateway, the masses are no longer a threat. They will merely return to the resources they were always meant to be: tools to enhance our growth.”

There was no way Damian had conceived such a diabolical plan on his own. The smug, knowing expressions of the Elders confirmed Talerra’s suspicion. Her idiot cousin believed he was pulling the strings, but he was merely the puppet. If he won the succession duel between them, the Phoenix Clan would eventually become a mouthpiece for the Elders’ Faction.

To Talerra’s absolute horror, each and every grandmaster nodded in agreement. First the Elders, then the Loyalists, then the Pathkeepers, and finally, even the Progressives. The subtle, excited murmuring of agreement sounded like a death knell to her ears, a pact with the devil, sealed by their own shortsightedness.

The murder of freedom had been proposed by the foulest of souls, and it was met with unanimous approval. In her heart, Talerra knew the grim future Damian had just painted would not be confined to the Amanath Territories. It would become the reins that controlled the entire world.