At 19:30, the Chinook helicopter touched down smoothly on the airfield at Arclain Group Inc.'s central headquarters. The massive rotors still spun lazily, churning the cold night air, while floodlights illuminated a ring of combat vehicles—light LAVs, armored tanks, and reconnaissance drones—forming an unbreakable wall of steel around the landing pad. The sharp tang of aviation fuel mingled with the scent of hot metal, stinging the nostrils of anyone who stood too close.
Ever since the incident, Flora had immediately issued a red alert. Every PMC affiliated with Arclain was mobilized in minutes. Normally, Zeyden would be greeted with a parade of corporate bigwigs and four-star regional officials. But tonight, Flora had given an absolute order: no one was to approach, not even to extend a handshake.
She suspected a rat inside. The senior executives—who'd already pocketed billions since Zeyden ascended the throne—now looked hungry-eyed. They wanted a bigger slice of the pie. Zeyden had no direct heir. If he died, his inheritance could be snatched through new laws drafted by bought legislators. This rotten scheme had never appeared in the original novel Zeyden had read before being hurled into this world.
Up in the boardroom on the upper floor, some executives were already whispering, weighing who was most deserving of Zeyden's chair. Flora knew; a few of them had sold information to outsiders—rival corporations, maybe even state intelligence.
Flora's brief report made Zeyden's blood boil. But his rage was perfectly contained behind a blank face. Revenge didn't need to be rushed. Let the enemy stew in paranoia. They knew exactly who Zeyden was—and what he was capable of. Every little move would be analyzed, every whisper suspected. But what if there were no moves at all?
When the surface of the water is too calm, it means there's a monster at the bottom of the lake.
"Flora," Zeyden's voice was ice-cold, but his lips curved into a sharp, demonic smile that never failed to make opponents shiver. "Don't touch them. We'll pretend nothing happened. Let them drown in their own fear."
Flora held her breath. "Sir—"
"Relax. When the time comes, they'll regret ever being born."
Zeyden's tone didn't waver. Flora let out a long sigh, giving in. "Understood, sir," she muttered, her professional voice cracking just a little at the end—her hatred for the traitors too raw to hide.
Zeyden glanced at her. Beneath the mask of the perfect secretary burned a fire. Blind love. Absolute loyalty. Something he'd never asked for, but now his deadliest weapon in the arsenal.
While the enemy fidgeted, awaiting the storm, Zeyden would craft a tsunami—silently, without a sound, until they were swept away without a chance to scream.
Along the bustling highway, civilian drivers and pedestrians froze in an instant—their eyes bulging, mouths agape, unable to believe the nightmare unfolding before them like a living hell. Light armored fighting vehicles growled at the front, their 30mm autocannons tilted slightly upward, ready to unleash a storm of hot lead. Unmanned drones buzzed overhead like a swarm of killer bees, their thermal cameras scanning every face on the sidewalk, hunting for threats. Meanwhile, an AH-64 Apache combat helicopter swooped low, its rotor blades slashing the air with a chest-rattling roar, the Hellfire rockets on its wings glinting cynically under the Moonlight. In the heart of the formation, a convoy of massive big bikes revved their engines, the modified military Harley-Davidson exhausts belching thick black smoke, carrying elite troops from the Arclain Group-affiliated PMC—matte black full-face helmets, steel plates on leather jackets, SCAR-H assault rifles slung across their chests. They escorted Zeyden's black limousine like a pack of wolves ready to pounce, fingers on triggers, eyes ice-cold.
This level of security wasn't just tight; it was a declaration of war against the ordinary world. Even the president of a superpower had never been herded with a death fleet like this. Atop the limousine, a heavy M2 Browning machine gun was mounted automatically, its barrel rotating slowly, tracking the drones above. Two Oshkosh JLTV tactical trucks flanked the sides, their rear doors cracked open just enough—inside, snipers with CheyTac M200s ready to drop a bird if necessary.
No blaring sirens, no barked commands, yet civilian vehicles yielded immediately. The drivers who usually drove recklessly—who loved cutting in or speeding like maniacs—suddenly remembered the basic rules of survival. They swerved to the side in panic, tires screeching on the asphalt, because one glance at that combat helicopter was enough to shrink their balls. A young mother in a Toyota RAV4 let out a small scream as her kid pointed upward, "Mama, war helicopter!" The father immediately killed the radio, his hands trembling on the wheel. On the sidewalk, a guy who'd been casually vaping dropped his vape, eyes locked on the drone hovering right above his head—its red lens like a demon's eye.
Their primal logic kicked in: don't fuck with iron monsters that could erase you in a blink.
Inside the bulletproof limousine, the AC hummed cold, the scent of Italian leather and sandalwood filling the cabin. Zeyden leaned back in the rear seat, his fingers tapping the armrest, his ruby-crimson eyes staring at the now-empty road like a desert. Beside him, Flora sat upright, her black pencil skirt riding up slightly to reveal a lacy garter belt—a little secret only she and Zeyden knew. The tablet on her lap glowed, her fingers dancing swiftly across it.
"Oh yeah, Flora, when does the first VR game 'The Ultimate Fantasia' officially launch?" Zeyden suddenly blurted, his deep voice brimming with an unusual excitement, as if a crucial memory had just ignited in his mind. The hot topic among gamers had now become his personal obsession.
Flora nearly choked on her imaginary coffee. The master she served—the one who viewed video games as a pointless waste of time, who preferred tallying trillions in assets over leveling up—was now enthusiastic like a kid in front of a candy store? Since when does he give a shit about this kind of entertainment she muttered inwardly, her brows shooting sky-high. But as the unflappable professional secretary, she snapped back to ice-cold mode: her fingers flew across the tablet, digging into the latest data.
"They'll launch tomorrow morning at exactly 10, Sir," she replied softly, her voice like silk hiding a blade. "Do you have a special interest in the developing company?" The question slipped out with subtle curiosity, but her eyes were sharp—she knew, behind this enthusiasm, there was a massive agenda.
Zeyden nodded slowly, a thin smile carving his lips. "Yes. Buy all their shares. Full acquisition, secure vital control over the company." His serious tone hit like a sledgehammer—high urgency, no room for failure.
Flora caught the signal instantly. Top priority set: the acquisition had to be complete before the game servers went live. She fired off an encrypted message to the Arclain Group's legal team—hostile takeover, no mercy. Though she had no power over the game's development itself, Zeyden had planned everything. With full ownership, he'd have highest privilege—pay-to-win without limits, no fear of bans from financial fair play systems. His near-limitless wealth would be the ultimate weapon to dominate that virtual world.
And domination wasn't just ego. Zeyden knew the secret that would shake everything.
One month after tomorrow's release, 'The Ultimate Fantasia' would bleed into reality. This planet's dimensional layers would evolve, producing ether energy identical to the game's. Every player relying on external energy supplies—magic, aura, qi—could manifest that power in the real world. Level ups in the game? Direct upgrades to their physical, spiritual, and ability attributes in reality. Stronger bodies, sharper minds, power flowing like blood. A level 50 mage could burn down a building with a flick of the finger. A warrior could snap a tank in half with a bare fist.
But there was a brutal exception: the super-rare powers from arcanum crystals. These crystals held mystical genetic keys, reforming the user into the absolute incarnation of their power concept—without needing ether at all. It just required intense training, high stamina, extreme durability, and precision control. Unfortunately, this evolution wouldn't bleed into the real world. Arcanum users stayed "locked" in the game, unlike their ether-based counterparts.
The arcanum crystals fell into three deadly classes:
- Elementator: Masters of basic elements, from hellfire to eternal ice. They could summon lightning storms in the real sky—but only in the game.
- Actuator: Manipulators of action and motion, bending space-time like paper. Instant teleportation, stopping time—but only on the server.
- Mutator: Shapers of form and essence, evolving into monsters or gods. Growing dragon wings, adamantium claws—but still ordinary humans outside.
Because of that, many players would quit. Those fused with the mystical genetic keys would delete their characters permanently, selling their arcanum crystals dirt cheap—to switch to ether powers that "lived" in the real world. Dark forums would flood: "Selling Elementator Fire crystal, 500 million, need cash to reroll Qi Cultivator." They wouldn't know that a year after release, the real world would fully assimilate with the game. That's when arcanum users could finally unleash their absolute powers outside the server—and those who endured would become true gods.
But Zeyden wouldn't wait a year. He knew about the hidden ultra-rare item—the Aetheric Resonance Core, an ancient artifact buried in the Abyssal Rift, a level 999 dungeon even the developers didn't know existed. The Core could stimulate real-world evolution for arcanum users—opening a direct ether portal to their DNA. With this acquisition, he'd monopolize the Core, the crystals, everything.
Outside the window, the convoy sped past a massive billboard: THE ULTIMATE FANTASIA – TOMORROW, THE WORLD CHANGES. Zeyden smiled coldly. It's not the world that changes. I'm the one who'll change it.
In the front seat, the limousine driver—a former Navy SEAL with burn scars on his neck—glanced in the rearview. "Sir, there's a news drone overhead. Want me to shoot it down?"
Zeyden shook his head. "Let it be. Tomorrow, they'll run headlines: 'Crazy Billionaire Acquires Game Studio Before Launch.' Let them guess. By the time the world knows, it'll be too late."
Flora closed her tablet, her fingers brushing Zeyden's thigh briefly—their secret code. "Acquisition done in 18 hours. Team's already at their headquarters. If needed, we go dirty."
Zeyden caught Flora's hand, his fingers stroking her wrist. "Use any means. I want the servers booting up with my name in the credit roll as Sole Owner."
The helicopter above suddenly dove, its rockets igniting—not firing, but deploying warning flares. In the distance, a delivery truck tried to cut in. The truck burst into flames, its driver leaping out, rolling on the asphalt while screaming. The elite troops on the bikes immediately aimed their rifles at him.
Zeyden didn't blink. "Good example. Don't touch my assets."
And that's when everything would change. Forever.