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Chapter 86 - The High Table

[Sector 8 - The Forge]

The production lines of the metal planet were humming. Every hour, another black-and-gold Void-Cruiser rolled off the assembly line, funded by the asteroids the Rust Brotherhood was tossing into the planetary maw .

Alex sat in the control center, reviewing his portfolio.

[Current Balance: 82,500,000 GC.] [Active Subscriptions: 5 Planetary Defense Contracts.]

"Boss," Admiral Valerius walked into the room, his scarred face looking unusually pale. "We have an incoming transmission. It bypassed all of our security protocols. Even Dawn couldn't block it."

"Who is it?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is Torvus back for another parking ticket?"

"No, Sir. It's an ultra-violet priority channel. The signature belongs to the Syndicate of Eight."

Alex's eyes narrowed. He remembered the Precursor's warning in the Moon dungeon. He was User 009. That meant there were eight who came before him.

"Put it on screen," Alex ordered.

[The Summons]

The main viewport flickered. It didn't show a face. It showed a golden envelope stamped with a nine-pointed star. One of the points was unlit.

A smooth, synthesized voice echoed in the cathedral of industry. "User 009. Your recent market disruptions in Sector 8 have been noted. Your 'War as a Service' model is destabilizing the regional economy. You are hereby summoned to the Obsidian Spire in the Galactic Core to answer to the Heirs of the First Eight. Attendance is mandatory."

"And if I don't attend?" Alex asked.

"Then the Syndicate will classify your System access as 'Rogue' and initiate a universal asset freeze. The meeting is in two hours."

The transmission cut out.

Luna drew her void blades, the silver metal gleaming. "It's a trap, Master. They want to lure you out of Sector 8 where you don't own the space."

"Of course it's a trap," Alex smiled, standing up and adjusting his bespoke tie. "But if the billionaires club invites you to dinner, you don't say no. You just make sure you eat their food."

"Dawn," Alex tapped his interface. "Lock onto the coordinates. Fire up the Bifrost Gate."

[The Obsidian Spire]

[Galactic Core - Neutral Territory]

The Bifrost Gate deposited Alex and Luna onto a landing pad made of polished black diamond. Looming above them was the Obsidian Spire, a towering monument to infinite wealth that pierced the clouds of a nebula.

As they walked toward the entrance, they passed private ships that made the Revenant look like a garbage truck. Ships made of pure crystal, ships powered by captive dying stars, and pleasure yachts the size of small moons.

Two towering guards in white-gold armor crossed their halberds at the entrance. "State your business, primitive," one guard sneered, scanning Alex's Earth-tailored suit. "This is the High Table. Class-0 citizens are not permitted."

Alex didn't blink. He just projected his Imperial Black Card. The Legendary Gold aura flared, blinding the guards' visors.

"I'm the guy who owns the factory," Alex said coldly. "Open the door."

[The Syndicate]

The doors parted. Alex stepped into a circular room featuring a massive table carved from a single meteor. Seated around the table were eight figures. They weren't the original Tycoons—those were dead —these were their descendants. The Heirs.

They represented the peak of galactic monopoly: Tech Barons, Spice Lords, and Information Brokers.

At the head of the table sat a humanoid alien with luminescent skin and a crown of floating data-crystals. [Designation: Lord Orion - Heir to User 002.]

"So," Orion looked down his nose at Alex. "The monkey from C-137 actually showed up. I must admit, when the system flagged a new User on a mudball, we assumed you would die in a week."

"I thrive under pressure," Alex took the empty ninth seat at the table without asking for permission.

"You thrive on luck," a female alien made of shifting light sneered from Seat 4. "You scavenged User 006's Forge and scammed some backwater planets. But your little 'Pantheon' company is an eyesore. We control the supply chains. You are a disruption."

"What is the point of this meeting, Orion?" Alex asked, leaning back.

"A buyout," Orion slid a digital contract across the table. "You will transfer ownership of the Forge and the Sector 8 spatial coordinates to the Syndicate. In exchange, we will grant you a stipend of 10 Million GC a year to live quietly on your mudball. Sign it, User 009, before we crush you like an insect."

Alex looked at the contract. Ten million. They thought he was a beggar.

He didn't get mad. He just smiled his coldest, most predatory smile.

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