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Once the initial rush faded, Ethan found himself in the kind of trouble only rich people have.
Too many things. Not enough points.
He was staring at a Mall interface with 986,500 Prestige and a shopping list that wanted every single item on the menu. Mark V through VII. Vibranium. The Stark Element. Another Spark. More Transformers. The math was simple: he could afford most of it, but not all of it. And the decision of what to skip was genuinely agonizing.
After twenty minutes of deliberation, he settled on a strategy.
First, the armor. Mark V, VI, and VII. All three.
The reasoning was blunt. His inventions had become progressively more dangerous, which meant the people hunting him had become progressively more desperate. The Bumblebee press conference assassination attempt had made that very clear. The serum was protection, but the serum had a ceiling. A well-placed round to the head would kill him, serum or no serum, and if President Kane was willing to spend sixty million marks on plastic pistols, the next attempt wouldn't be plastic.
Portable armor solved that problem. The Mark V was a suitcase-style suit. Worn in civilian situations, deployable in seconds. If an assassin came at him with real weapons, the Mark V would be out of his briefcase and around his body before the trigger finished pulling.
The Mark VI and VII were different. The Mark VI ran on the new-generation reactor — which required the Stark Element to function — and would outperform every previous armor model in every measurable category. The Mark VII was a flight pod system with heavy weapons integration, the combat-grade suit he'd need if the Aurelian Republic ever came at him again in force.
Second, the Stark Element. Non-negotiable. The entire undersea reactor plan hinged on it. Two hundred thousand Prestige, and worth every point.
Third, one more Spark and one more Transformer.
He'd thought about this carefully. Bumblebee was functional and loyal, but he was a single unit. The undersea construction project would need more than one autonomous agent, and bringing human crews down to seabed construction sites carried risks Ethan wasn't willing to accept. The Transformers were the solution. Build an underwater-specialized unit, give it a Spark, and it could work the seabed indefinitely without oxygen, pressure constraints, or salary requirements.
He added the items to his mental shopping cart.
Three armor sets. One Transformer template. One Disposable Spark. One Stark Element.
*Total: 900,000 Prestige.*
Before he could feel the sting of watching nearly a million points evaporate, the knowledge download hit.
It was a tsunami. Three distinct armor engineering frameworks. An entire subfield of chemistry dedicated to synthesizing an element that didn't exist on this planet. An autonomous Transformer's complete mechanical specification. The thermodynamic theory for the new-energy reactor. Everything compressed and delivered directly into his neural architecture in a torrent of foreign, perfectly structured information.
The download lasted nearly half an hour.
When the light faded, Ethan was sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling like his skull had been used as a bucket for someone else's entire education.
No wonder the System kept the serum in Level 1.
Anyone unprepared for a download this size would have had their brain give out mid-transfer. The serum had strengthened his nervous system to the point where he could absorb Level 2 content without permanent damage, but "without permanent damage" and "comfortable" were very different things.
He lay there for ten minutes, letting the new information settle. Then he started sorting through it.
The armor schematics were impressive. The Transformer specs were creative. But the thing that genuinely stunned him — the thing that made his breathing stop for several seconds — was the Stark Element.
A synthesizable element with properties that broke the rules of the periodic table as this world understood it. Reduced reactor pollution by eliminating high-energy particle scatter. Enhanced fusion stability under extreme environmental conditions. Enabled sustained reactions in aquatic environments by fundamentally altering the electromagnetic containment profile.
And the commercial applications went far beyond undersea reactors. Every nuclear facility in the Republic would want this element. Every power plant. Every research institution. Every military program. Every international buyer with the budget to afford it.
He ran the numbers in his head. Conservative estimate: twenty billion marks annual revenue within five years. Aggressive estimate: a hundred billion.
Ethan closed his eyes and allowed himself a brief, private moment of disbelief.
I'm going to become the richest person in the world.
Because of a tiny glowing rock.
-----
One month later. The southern coast of the Republic of Valoria.
The research vessel Meridian Wave cut through calm, deep-blue waters a hundred kilometers off the coastline. The sky was clear. The sea was flat. Seabirds trailed the wake in loose formations, occasionally dropping toward the surface to pluck fish from the shallow spots.
On the aft deck, Dr. Zachary Chen was in a foul mood.
He had every reason to be. Twenty-eight years old, PhD in nuclear engineering from Grandfield University, two years into a research project that had been weeks away from producing publishable results. Everything in his professional life had been on track.
And then his research supervisor had called him into an office, informed him that he'd been pulled from his project on direct Bureau orders, and assigned him to an unspecified "consulting role" on a marine survey.
The supervisor had refused to explain. Had only said: "You're going to wish you'd accepted this gracefully, Zachary. The people requesting you are not the kind of people you say no to."
Now he was standing on a boat, a hundred kilometers from anywhere useful, accompanying a teenager who wanted to — and Chen had to read the project brief twice to make sure he was understanding it correctly — build a nuclear reactor on the seabed.
The whole thing was insane.
Every serious nuclear physicist in the Republic knew the basic principle: seawater was the enemy of nuclear reactions. Conventional nuclear plants used seawater as a last-ditch shutdown mechanism, flooding reactor chambers during emergencies to kill the reaction and prevent meltdowns. The entire industry had been built around the understanding that water and sustained fission were fundamentally incompatible.
And now Chen was being asked to help some kid build a reactor in the ocean.
It was a joke. A bad one. And the fact that his supervisor had ordered him to play along — and that the Bureau itself had apparently signed off — suggested that this teenager had somehow charmed the entire national science apparatus into chasing his delusions.
He must have mastered some dark art. Nothing else explains how the Bureau is taking this seriously.
"Zachary!"
The voice came from the bow. Ethan Mercer was leaning against the railing, his dark hair whipped by the sea breeze, pointing at a GPS readout on his phone.
"What do you think of this spot?"
Chen sighed. Crossed the deck. Didn't bother hiding his irritation.
"Whatever."
A beat.
"You're paying for the boat. You're paying for my time. If a spoiled rich kid wants to play scientist, go ahead and play. Pick whatever coordinates you want. It's your money."
Behind Chen, three Bureau guards who'd been leaning against the cabin went rigid.
"Excuse me?"
The lead guard, a broad-shouldered man in his thirties named Commander Hayes, stepped forward with the specific stillness of a military professional deciding whether to escalate.
"Dr. Chen. Professor Mercer has contributed more to this Republic by the age of eighteen than most researchers contribute in their entire careers."
"You will speak to him with respect."
Another guard chimed in. "Dr. Chen, you might want to check his bibliography. You'd be surprised."
"Spoiled rich kid," a third muttered. "Did you actually call the inventor of nuclear fusion, powered armor, the super soldier serum, and the world's first sentient Transformer a spoiled rich kid?"
Chen's mouth opened. Then closed.
Ethan, who'd been watching the exchange with the mild amusement of a man who'd seen this exact sequence play out half a dozen times, stepped in.
"Gentlemen, it's fine. Dr. Chen has been deep in his own research for a long time. It's completely reasonable that he hasn't had time to follow recent news."
The guards subsided, but their glares at Chen didn't. The message was clear: say something like that again and we won't be polite about it.
Chen stood there for a full ten seconds, his brain struggling to reconcile the irritated, entitled teenager in front of him with the descriptions he'd just heard.
Fusion. Powered armor. Serum. Transformer.
The name had sounded familiar when his supervisor first mentioned it. He'd vaguely remembered some viral news story about a kid and a glowing disc. He hadn't followed up because he'd been buried in research.
Apparently he should have followed up.
Oh.
Oh no.
He cleared his throat. His voice came out significantly smaller than it had thirty seconds ago.
"From this position, proceed approximately twelve nautical miles southeast."
"The seabed in that region is relatively flat. Low sediment disruption. No combustible deposits like natural gas."
Ethan nodded pleasantly, as if nothing had happened. "Great. Thanks, Dr. Chen."
He turned to the pilot. "Change course, twelve miles southeast."
The boat altered direction.
Chen stood on the deck and silently considered whether it was too late to pretend he'd been joking.
-----
On the way to the new coordinates, Ethan struck up a conversation with Commander Hayes, who seemed less likely to throttle him than Dr. Chen at this point.
"Speaking of which — where's Director Graves? I figured he'd be here, given that he's spent three days yelling at me and one month signing off on this entire operation."
Hayes hesitated. His ears went slightly red.
"Director Graves, uh. Said he had other priorities. Couldn't make the trip."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. The younger guards behind Hayes were grinning.
"Professor Mercer, if I can be honest…"
"Please."
"Director Graves has nothing going on today. His calendar's empty. But he said that if he showed up to every one of your operations, you'd start thinking he had too much free time."
Ethan nearly walked into the railing.
"So he's — pretending to be busy?"
"Essentially, sir."
"So I don't look down on him?"
"Yes, sir."
Ethan stared at Hayes for a long moment. Then he started laughing. Actually laughing, the kind that came from the gut.
Graves. The Director of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. A man who ran this nation's most feared security agency. Faking a busy schedule so a teenager wouldn't think less of him.
Graves had a tsundere streak. He had an actual, honest-to-god tsundere streak, and his own subordinates had just exposed it on an open deck in front of God and the Southern Sea.
Wait until I see him next.
-----
The boat slowed and stopped.
They'd reached the coordinates. The engine cut, the water stilled, and the Meridian Wave floated on a patch of deep blue that looked, to Ethan's untrained eye, exactly like every other patch of deep blue they'd passed in the last two hours.
Dr. Chen was already reviewing sonar data on his tablet. Chen, apparently, could tell a great deal about a seabed from surface indicators alone. Ethan had to give him credit: the man was genuinely skilled in his specialty. Sullen, rude, and now horrifically embarrassed, but skilled.
Ethan leaned over the rail and stared down into the water.
He saw nothing. Just depth. Blue fading to darker blue fading to a blackness that his eyes couldn't resolve.
Each profession has its own expertise, he thought. Chen can read this from the surface. I can't.
Which was why he needed to see it for himself.
"Just to be safe," Ethan said, "I think I'll head down and take a look."
Four heads turned toward him.
Hayes looked confused. "Professor Mercer?"
Dr. Chen's face went through several colors in rapid succession. Irritation. Disbelief. Then a specific expression that could only be described as the face of a man watching someone walk cheerfully toward a cliff.
"Down? You mean dive?"
"Yeah."
"Are you — are you out of your mind?"
Chen's professional training took over, overriding his newfound deference. This was his field. And in his field, what Ethan was proposing was lethal stupidity.
"Professor Mercer, do you have any idea where we are? The average depth of the Southern Sea is twelve hundred meters. This specific location is closer to two thousand. The most advanced military diving suit in the Republic rated for crushing pressure can't go below a thousand meters. And you want to — what, jump off the boat?"
"Something like that."
"You will DIE."
"Probably not."
Hayes coughed. His younger guards, who apparently had more information than Chen did, had the expression of people trying very hard not to laugh.
Ethan walked to his equipment case, crouched down, and clicked it open.
Inside was a briefcase.
Or, more accurately, what looked like a briefcase. Sleek. Black. Matte finish. No visible seams, no visible hinges, no logos, no markings. Just a rectangular object that, to anyone not paying close attention, would pass as carry-on luggage.
He lifted it out. Set it on the deck. Took a few steps back.
Then he tapped a discreet panel on the top of the case and said, very clearly:
"Deploy."
The briefcase ignited.
Panels folded. Seams that didn't exist a moment ago split open. Components unfolded, telescoped, and interlocked in a cascade of mechanical motion that covered Ethan's body in less than four seconds.
When it was done, a gleaming, sleek, compact suit of powered armor stood on the deck where the teenager had been.
The Mark V.
Dr. Zachary Chen stared. His tablet slipped out of his hand and clattered onto the deck.
Inside the helmet, Ethan's voice came through external speakers, cheerful and completely unbothered.
"Right. Be back in a bit."
He walked to the railing, swung one leg over, and dropped into the sea.
The splash was quiet.
And then the water closed over the armor, and the teenager vanished into two thousand meters of darkness.
On the deck, Dr. Chen was still staring at the spot where Ethan had been standing.
Behind him, Hayes clapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Welcome to working with Professor Mercer, Dr. Chen. You'll get used to it."
He paused.
"Probably."