System S.E.X. (Seduction, Expansion, eXecution)

Chapter 392: The Exodus of the Damned

The Scavenger Ancestor let out a low, guttural growl that sounded like grinding metal. "You want our maps? You want the locations of the Rifts that have claimed the lives of thousands of our soldiers? You’re not just a wolf, boy... you’re a delusional suicide case."

"If you’re so worried about my health, just give me the data and watch me fail," Ethan countered, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Unless, of course, you’re afraid that I’ll actually succeed where you’ve been failing for the last fifty years?"

The Deacon sat back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the Obsidian tier begin to fracture from within. The "United Front" they had built to trap Ethan was crumbling under the weight of his sheer audacity.

"Give him the coordinates," the Deacon commanded, his voice cold and final. "Let him have his maps. Let him see exactly where his grave is being dug."

At the threshold, Ethan paused. He didn’t turn his whole body, only his head, his amethyst eyes glowing with a predatory luminescence.

"Twenty-four hours," Ethan said, his voice a low, vibrating warning that skipped across the surface of the silent hall. "Don’t forget. And don’t make me come back to invite you out personally. I’m not a very gracious host."

He stepped out, the heavy doors groaning shut behind him. Inside, the room was a pressure cooker of indecision.

For months, nearly every organization in the room had tried to bypass Royal’s security to strike a deal. They had offered mountains of gold, refined mana-crystals, sprawling territories, and even their own kin as collateral. But Ethan’s decree had been absolute: Healing Potions were not for sale. He understood their value as a monopoly; he was waiting for the market to scream for them until their price reached the heavens.

However, there was one thing Ethan craved with a desperation that bordered on obsession—something no one dared to give him.

Enriched Uranium. Nuclear warheads. Advanced combustion-cycle propulsion.

The Obsidian-tier powers held a stranglehold on the nation’s nuclear silos and enrichment facilities, audited relentlessly by the Union. Even the Black Market, a place where one could usually buy a god’s soul for the right price, had slammed its doors shut the moment Ethan’s name was mentioned. The Union’s shadow over the underground was long; the threat was clear: Anyone caught selling advanced strategic weaponry to Royal will see eighteen generations of their bloodline erased.

"He thinks money can buy the fire of the sun," the Scavenger Leader whispered, watching Ethan’s retreating back. "He underestimates the chains the Union has placed on this world."

But as the doors closed, a different kind of realization began to spread through the Gold and Silver ranks like a contagion.

A Gold-rank commander from a coastal militia stared at his hands, his face twisting with years of buried resentment. "The Union talks about ’protection,’" he thought, his jaw tightening. "But when the Rifts open, it’s my boys on the front line. We take eighty percent of the casualties, while the Obsidian groups swoop in at the end to harvest the spirit cores and artifacts. Then they charge us a ’safety tax’ for the privilege of dying for them. To hell with the Union."

This thought wasn’t unique. It was a silent anthem shared by every mid-tier group from Florida to Maine. They were tired of being the grist for the mill.

"I’m not moving my base," another leader muttered to his lieutenant. "This new boss, Ethan... he’s a devil, but he’s a devil who actually kills the things that go bump in the night. If I stay, I might die. If I leave, I have nothing. I’d rather bet on the wolf than the vultures."

Suddenly, the Gold-rank section began to move. It wasn’t a tactical retreat; it was a stampede.

Inside the hall, the Deacon stood at the podium, clearing his throat to regain control. "Now, as we proceed to the exchange of materials... the Union has brought forth ancient treasures of the—"

He was cut off by the thunderous sound of hundreds of chairs scraping back simultaneously. The leaders of the East Coast weren’t looking at his "treasures." They were running for the exit, chasing after the man who had just declared their land an "Excluded Zone."

"Malditos traidores!" the Deacon screamed, his porcelain mask finally shattering into a face of raw, purple fury. "If you walk out that door, you are outcasts! Criminals! The Union will never—"

His words were drowned out by the slamming of the doors. They didn’t care. To them, the Union was a distant, greedy god; Ethan was the storm currently over their heads.

Outside, in the crisp air of the capital, Ethan heard the muffled shouting and the chaotic thunder of footsteps behind him. He didn’t stop walking, but a sharp, knowing smirk crossed his face.

Anne Blackwood, walking gracefully beside him, tilted her head. "Did you know this would happen? You’ve effectively decapitated the Union’s influence over half the seaboard in ten minutes."

"I had an inkling," Ethan replied, his voice cool.

In reality, it wasn’t a guess. It was data. Crul had spent weeks infiltrating the fragmented databases of the defunct Massachusetts militias and the coastal syndicates. The numbers were staggering: the casualty rates were unsustainable, and the resentment toward the "Big Four" was at a boiling point. The smaller groups were a tower of cards; Ethan hadn’t knocked it down—he had simply removed the table it was standing on.

"They didn’t need a savior," Ethan whispered, glancing back as the first wave of Gold-rank leaders burst through the doors, shouting his name and waving folders of surrender. "They just needed an excuse to stop being slaves."

Anne laughed, a dark, melodic sound. "You’ve given them a choice between a quick death by Outsiders or a slow death by the Union. And they chose you. Be careful, Ethan. A King of the Damned has a lot of mouths to feed."

"Then it’s a good thing I brought a big appetite," Ethan said, stopping at the edge of the stairs.

[Master,] Crul’s voice echoed in his mind. [The first five Gold-rank organizations have reached our perimeter. They are offering full vassalage and... one of them claims to have a lead on a decommissioned ’research facility’ in the Appalachian outskirts. They mention ’yellowcake.’]

Ethan’s eyes flared. The gamble was already paying off.

"Let the party begin," he muttered.