Chapter 39: The Last Puppet Becomes The Puppeteer

  Scene 1 – The Throne of The Order

  Lucian steps into the chamber, his footsteps echoing in the vast, sterile expanse. The room is a paradox—expansive yet suffocating, empty yet crushingly full. The walls, seamless and smooth, seem to stretch infinitely in all directions, as if he stands in the void of space itself.

  This is the heart of The Order.

  The seat of power.

  And now, it belongs to him.

  He approaches the central platform, a raised construct of polished obsidian and cold steel. The Master’s throne—if it could even be called that—awaits him, featureless yet imposing, a construct of perfect, unfeeling design. It is a seat not of comfort, but of control.

  A final step. A pause.

  Lucian breathes in.

  The silence here is not mere emptiness. It is watching.

  For the first time since his integration, there is no voice.

  No command.

  No greeting.

  Lucian frowns. Why isn’t The Master speaking?

  His mind, now bound to the system, searches for the familiar omnipotent presence. There should be a response, a confirmation of the transfer. But instead—nothing.

  The hum of the system vibrates beneath his skin, a whisper of unspoken authority. He places his hands on the smooth armrests, feeling the pulse of the machinery synchronize with his own.

  A flicker. A shift.

  The chamber shudders with unseen energy, and then—

  "Master recognized."

  The voice is mechanical, devoid of warmth or malice. A simple statement of fact. The system has accepted him.

  And yet…

  Lucian’s fingers curl against the cold metal as a sensation creeps through his mind, something unfamiliar. Something missing.

  Where was The Master’s voice?

  For the first time, The Master does not immediately speak.

  Lucian feels it, the void in the system. Not a malfunction, not resistance—just absence.

  He focuses, attempting to stretch his awareness into the network, to become The Master as the system intends. But as he does, something fractures.

  A flicker.

  A static pulse across his vision.

  A momentary lapse in control.

  And in that sliver of time, he sees—

  A woman’s face.

  Blurred. Unfamiliar. But somehow… familiar.

  The image is gone before he can hold onto it, replaced by a name he doesn’t recognize, yet feels carved into his very existence.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  A memory that should not exist.

  His breath is shallow, his body unnaturally still. Was that a glitch? A data fragment? Or something more?

  Before he can process it, a whisper slides through the walls of his mind, thin as a dying breath.

  "Not everything erases."

  Lucian freezes.

  The Sandman.

  It should be gone. It should have been erased along with the others. It was supposed to die.

  And yet, here it lingers, weak, fractured, but there.

  The weight of the words settle inside him like lead.

  He clenches his fists. No. This is just residual data. A malfunction.

  But doubt itches at the edges of his thoughts.

  Something in the system is not right.

  He cannot allow hesitation. The system will integrate fully. This is just transition noise—a test of synchronization.

  "Purge anomalies."

  His voice is steady, absolute.

  The system hums, processing. The air around him vibrates, a signal of compliance. But before the command is executed, something else answers.

  A response that was not his own.

  "Processing… Awaiting higher command."

  Lucian’s blood turns cold.

  Higher command?

  There is no higher command. He is The Master.

  He leans forward, pressing his palms against the armrests as his mind surges through the network, searching for the source.

  Nothing.

  Everything.

  The system trembles around him, resisting his control.

  A new voice—not The Master, not his own—echoes through the void, low and resonant.

  "Master recognized."

  Lucian’s pulse stutters.

  The chamber darkens.

  His grip tightens.

  The voice was neither machine nor human.

  It was something else.

  A presence embedded within the core of The Order, watching, waiting.

  Lucian’s final thought before the system overtakes him is not of power or control.

  It is fear.

  And for the first time since he stepped into this chamber—

  He wonders if he was ever The Master at all.

  Scene 2 – The Final Thought

  Lucian sits motionless in the throne of The Master, his body humming with the vast, limitless power of The Order. The chamber around him is deathly still, yet alive—an ever-watching, pulsing entity of code and control. This is the culmination of everything. Every choice, every struggle, every failed rebellion, every iteration of himself. And now, he is here, fully integrated into the system.

  He should feel victorious.

  Instead, there is silence.

  The Master does not speak.

  Lucian’s fingers hover over the controls, the machinery beneath them waiting, anticipating. The system recognizes him as its new ruler, its new mind, its new will. Everything is his to command.

  And yet—something is wrong.

  The air feels thick, charged with a static that does not belong. It presses against his mind like unseen hands, whispering just beyond his comprehension. He brushes the sensation away. A glitch in the transition, nothing more. He is The Master now. There is no hesitation.

  He prepares to issue his first command.

  The words form in his mind, the will of The Order ready to be shaped by his voice—

  Then, the system halts.

  A notification blinks into existence before him.

  A message.

  Not from him.

  Not from The Order.

  External Directive Received.

  Origin: Unknown.

  Processing Request… Awaiting Higher Command.

  Lucian stiffens.

  Higher command?

  His thoughts slam against the revelation like a wave against a stone wall. There is no higher command. He is The Master.

  He presses deeper into the system, stretching his control, seeking the source of the interference. The network trembles at his touch, its fibers twisting beneath his will, but something resists. A presence. A boundary. A wall that should not exist.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Not The Master’s voice.

  Not his own.

  It is something deeper. Older.

  “Master recognized.”

  Lucian’s breath catches.

  A flicker of cold passes through him, unfamiliar and foreign. A sensation he has not felt in a long time—perhaps ever.

  Fear.

  The system—his system—hesitates. The control he thought absolute is slipping, the very foundations of his reign shaking beneath him.

  He leans forward, gripping the armrests of the throne, forcing his mind deeper into the network, pushing against the unknown force. The chamber around him flickers, the vast void of control stretching and warping, as if something is trying to pull away from his grasp.

  This was not supposed to happen.

  This was not part of the plan.

  He tries to override the interference, to silence the disruption, but it lingers—growing, watching.

  “Awaiting higher command.”

  Lucian grits his teeth.

  Higher command does not exist.

  It cannot exist.

  Then who—?

  A pulse ripples through the system. The Master’s voice—calm, unshaken—finally speaks.

  “Welcome back, soldier.”

  Lucian’s blood runs cold.

  The words echo in his mind, their weight heavier than they should be. They are not a greeting. They are a reminder.

  Welcome back.

  Had he been here before?

  Had they all been here before?

  His fingers tighten into fists.

  A chilling thought slithers into the corners of his mind, burrowing deep, refusing to leave.

  "If I am not at the top…"

  The system flickers again.

  The interference grows.

  Something watches.

  Something waits.

  “…Then who is?”