The task was finished.

  At least for this round.

  The Sanjaya family's Black Hawk helicopter didn't return to the old mansion. The iron bird turned around, slicing the night sky, and descended toward the heart of modern civilization.

  Crownbelt International Airport.

  The landing gear hit the VIP tarmac asphalt smoothly.

  No rough shaking. No uneven stone surfaces.

  Here, the runway was flat, neatly painted with yellow phosphorus lines, and illuminated by soothing blue runway lights.

  The helicopter rotors slowed, their sound changing from an angry roar to a lazy whump-whump-whump whine before finally dying completely.

  The sliding door opened.

  Noel stepped down.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell.

  Not the smell of sulfur. Not the metallic stench of blood. Not the smell of charred Anukh Ramj flesh.

  But the sharp smell of aviation fuel, the aroma of hot tire rubber, and... faintly, the scent of expensive perfume and roasted coffee from the main terminal.

  The wind here was warmer.

  The daytime Crownbelt air felt "tame" and "pampered" on his skin, vastly different from the savage, bone-piercing wind of Mirror Canyon.

  Noel pulled his wool coat tighter—not because it was cold, but because he felt dirty. He felt the death dust from that valley still clinging to the fibers of his clothes, and he didn't want to infect this sterile place with it.

  He walked escorted by two family guards toward the VIP Arrival Terminal.

  However, the glass corridor path forced him to pass—and see—the public area.

  A giant ten-meter-high glass wall separated Noel’s world from theirs.

  Behind that glass... Crownbelt was alive.

  Noel stopped for a moment. He pressed his leather-gloved hand against the cold glass surface, looking down, toward the Grand Atrium.

  Thousands of humans.

  A colorful sea of humanity.

  There were no gloomy gray camouflage uniforms here.

  There were brightly colored winter jackets, neon hardcase suitcases pulled with cheerful rumbling sounds, and welcome balloons.

  Noel saw a young businessman shouting angrily into his phone, maybe cursing about dropping stocks or a ten-minute flight delay.

  The man looked heavily stressed. Neck veins bulging.

  You think that's a problem? Noel thought cynically. An hour ago, that neck of yours could have been snapped off by a shadow if we failed.

  In another corner, a couple was hugging goodbye near the departure gate. The woman was sobbing, as if the world would end because they had to be long-distance for a month.

  Noel stared at those tears without sympathy.

  Save your tears, he thought. You don't know how lucky you are to still have a whole body to hug.

  The noise in this airport was loud, but a different kind of loud.

  Smooth speaker announcements calling the last passengers.

  Clinking glasses in expensive cafes.

  The laughter of little kids running chasing their dad's suitcase.

  Notification sounds from thousands of smartphones.

  It was a symphony of ignorance.

  A beautiful symphony of naivety.

  They were all busy with their petty problems. They laughed, they got angry, they got bored waiting for luggage.

  They lived in a thin soap bubble, totally unaware that the bubble wall was just nearly popped by a needle from hell.

  Noel saw his own reflection in the glass.

  Pale. Sunken eyes. A gaze too old for his age.

  He looked like a ghost lost at a wedding party.

  Behind him, a neatly uniformed airport official bowed respectfully, breaking his reverie.

  "Young Master Sanjaya... your pickup car is ready curbside."

  Noel didn't answer. He just nodded slowly.

  He pulled his hand from the glass, leaving a trail of breath vapor that slowly disappeared.

  He turned, turning his back on that happy crowd.

  Let them laugh. Let them get angry over coffee not sweet enough.

  It meant the Sanjaya family had done their job well.

  Because if this airport was silent... it meant they had failed.

  Noel’s footsteps echoed softly as he exited the automated glass doors of the VIP Terminal.

  On that quiet and sterile curbside, there was no line of reporters or crowd of greeters. There was only one black limousine sedan whose engine purred softly, nearly soundless. Its license plate wasn't ordinary civilian, but a special code of the airport authority.

  And beside the rear passenger door, stood a man.

  He wasn't a driver.

  His clothes were the official daily service uniform of the aviation authority—a dark blue suit with a gold badge on the left chest, and a silver name tag shining under the streetlamp: RAVVI - HEAD OF CROWNBELT AIRPORT AUTHORITY.

  The man was around his forties, hair cropped neatly in military style, and his posture upright like a concrete pillar.

  As soon as he saw Noel’s shadow emerge from the exit, Ravvi didn't wave or smile pleasantly.

  He instantly turned his body facing Noel, brought his heels together with a firm tap, then bowed a full ninety degrees.

  That wasn't a civil servant's respectful bow to a VIP passenger.

  It was ojigi—a disciple's respect to his master. A servant's respect to the blood he served.

  "Welcome back to safe lands, Young Master Noel," Ravvi said. His voice was low, steady, and loaded with respect.

  Noel stopped for a moment in front of the man.

  His eyes scanned Ravvi’s figure.

  Ravvi Andara, Noel thought, pulling personal data from his brain's archive. Former Sanjaya Family student batch 45. Failed the final stage aura manipulation exam, but graduated with perfect scores in logistics management and civil defense strategy. Placed by the family in a strategic position: Master of the capital's air gates.

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  Noel looked flat and gave a small nod. Enough to acknowledge his presence without lowering authority.

  Ravvi straightened his body again. His face hard, unsmiling, yet his eyes radiated absolute loyalty. He didn't ask "How was the trip?" or "Are you tired?". Normal human pleasantry questions were an insult to someone who just returned from hell.

  Ravvi’s white-gloved hand moved quickly opening the car door.

  "Please, Young Master," he said. "I myself will take the wheel tonight."

  Noel glanced at him.

  An International Airport Head, a high official supervising thousands of employees and controlling air traffic of one of the busiest cities in the world, now offered himself to be a personal driver.

  To outsiders, this was crazy.

  But to a Sanjaya family disciple, this was a privilege. Being able to drive a post-war Sanjaya was the highest form of devotion.

  Noel got into the spacious rear cabin smelling of expensive leather.

  Ravvi closed the door softly yet firmly—thud—locking out the noise of the outside world.

  A moment later, Ravvi was sitting in the driver's seat.

  He looked into Noel’s eyes through the rearview mirror. That look asked for destination confirmation, even though he already knew the answer. Ironseat.

  The car glided away.

  Ravvi drove with a technique reminding Noel of the way his uncle held a weapon: efficient, precise, and without wasted movement.

  The luxury sedan sliced through the airport ring road, overtaking tour buses and slow-moving taxis without ever making Noel feel a jolt in the back seat.

  Noel rested his head against the leather seat.

  He saw Ravvi’s upright back in front of him.

  Their car now entered the elevated toll road heading to the city center.

  Behind the dark tinted window glass, Noel could see the silhouette of Ironseat in the distance.

  The government palace complex towered majestically in the middle of Crownbelt city.

  Its building was made of a blend of ancient black stone and modern steel, making it look like a fortress amidst a sea of skyscrapers.

  There the heart of power beat.

  And there Noel had to give an accountability report for the corpses he had just witnessed.

  Ravvi drove the car faster, as if understanding his Young Master didn't want to linger on the road. He brought Noel not just to the palace, but to the next battlefield: the negotiation table.

  The black sedan slowed down, then turned into the west wing courtyard of the Ironseat Complex.

  Here, among government buildings dominated by modern concrete and glass, the Sanjaya Faction Building stood as an intimidating historical anomaly.

  The building wasn't an office building. It was a fortress.

  Its architecture was Gothic-Military Revival style. Its outer walls were made of black andesite stone brought directly from the Iron Mountains mines hundreds of years ago. There were no friendly wide glass windows on the ground floor; there were only narrow vertical slits that used to function as archer loopholes, now coated with five-centimeter thick bulletproof glass.

  Ravvi stopped the car right in front of the main pillar.

  He got out swiftly, opening the back door for Noel.

  Noel stepped down.

  The air in Ironseat felt dry and smelled of bureaucracy—the smell of paper, ink, and stale ambition.

  They stepped inside.

  Sanjaya Building Lobby.

  As soon as the giant teak double doors were pushed open by guards, grandeur and antiquity instantly assaulted the senses.

  This wasn't a five-star hotel lobby welcoming guests with fake smiles and fresh flowers.

  This was a Mausoleum of Power.

  Its ceiling soared twenty meters high, supported by black marble pillars whose diameter took three adults to hug.

  The floor was made of polished granite so dark and slick it reflected the shadow of anyone walking on it like walking on the surface of a night lake.

  Along the walls, hung torn and faded Sanjaya family war banners—mute witnesses to battles from the first kingdom era. Among those banners, ancient weapons were displayed: halberds, claymores, and broken spears displayed inside vacuum glass cases.

  The atmosphere was silent, cold, and pressing.

  Every staff member walking in this lobby moved fast, soundless, and bowed respectfully when Noel passed. There was no noise of high heels. The thick red carpet muffled all sounds.

  Noel walked straight toward the private elevator at the end of the lobby, passing the bronze statue of the Founding Ancestor staring at the entrance with a fierce face. Ravvi walked one step behind him, a loyal, watchful shadow.

  Noel Sanjaya’s Office.

  A few minutes later, Noel was sitting behind his desk.

  The desk itself was a statement. Made of one solid, seamless slab of black ironwood, weighing half a ton. On it, stacks of priority documents were already waiting.

  Ravvi stood straight on the right side of the desk, hands folded behind his back, perfect at-ease posture.

  The staff parade began.

  One by one, assistants and division heads came in bringing reports.

  They didn't sit. They stood in front of the desk, reading crucial points fast and efficiently. They knew the rules of the game in this room: No beating around the bush.

  "Ammunition Logistics Division," reported a man with thick glasses. "Delivery of 50,000 incendiary rounds to Mirror Canyon was completed at 02:00 AM. Central warehouse stock depleted by 15%."

  Noel didn't answer.

  He just looked at the man, then his right index finger tapped the wooden desk surface once.

  Tap.

  That meant: Received. Continue procurement.

  The man nodded in understanding, then retreated.

  Next staff came in. A young woman in a gray suit.

  "PR and Media Handling Division," her voice trembled slightly. "There was an amateur photo leak from illegal climbers on the south side of the mountains. The photo caught the Ignis Magna flashes."

  Noel stopped turning document pages.

  His eyes narrowed sharply staring at the woman. The room temperature felt like it dropped several degrees.

  The woman swallowed. "W-we have spread a counter-narrative that it was a routine military flare test and a local aurora borealis phenomenon. The cyber team is wiping the digital traces of the original photo."

  Noel stared at her for three full seconds without blinking.

  Then, he moved his hand horizontally in the air—a cutting motion.

  Clean it up completely. Leave no trace.

  The woman nodded fast, her face pale, then hurried out.

  Hours passed.

  The mountain of documents on Noel’s desk slowly shrank, then grew again, then shrank again.

  The coffee in Noel’s cup was replaced three times by Ravvi, ensuring its temperature was always perfect.

  Outside, the Ironseat sky began to change from pitch black to dawn gray.

  But the work rhythm in that room didn't slow down. Noel worked like a machine.

  Until suddenly...

  Bzzt... Bzzt...

  A phone vibration broke the sacred silence of the room.

  Not Noel’s phone.

  It came from Ravvi’s inner suit pocket.

  Noel stopped his pen mid-signature. He looked up, staring at Ravvi with one eyebrow raised.

  Ravvi rarely took direct calls while on duty accompanying him, unless it was Very Important.

  Ravvi quickly reached into his pocket. He glanced at the phone screen.

  His flat facial expression changed slightly. There was a thin wrinkle on his forehead.

  "Apologies, Young Master," Ravvi said softly. "Crownbelt Watchtower Authority. Red Line."

  Noel nodded slowly, giving him permission.

  Ravvi pressed the accept button and put the phone to his ear.

  "Ravvi speaking. Report."

  Silence for a moment. Ravvi just listened.

  However, Noel saw the body language change in the former Sanjaya disciple.

  Ravvi’s back tensed. His free left hand clenched slowly by his side. His eyes, usually calm, now radiated sharp vigilance.

  "Are you sure of the situation?" Ravvi asked sharply into the phone.

  "..."

  Ravvi’s phone vibrated again on the black ironwood desk.

  This time it wasn't the "Red Line" emergency ring like before, but the ministry's internal communication line.

  Ravvi glanced at Noel.

  Noel gave a brief eye signal: Answer. Loudspeaker.

  Ravvi pressed the green button, then placed the phone in the middle of the desk, right among the stacks of documents.

  A soft static sound was heard for a moment, before a man's panicked voice—the ITCC Deputy of Operations—exploded filling the silent room.

  "Reporting, Minister!" the deputy's voice sounded hoarse, his breath hunting between chaotic background noise. "Command Center is overloaded. We've lost control of normal departure protocols!"

  Ravvi stood straight, face cold as ice. "Calm down, Deputy. Give a descriptive audio visual. The Young Master is listening."

  Silence for a moment on the other end of the line. The deputy swallowed, realizing who his audience was. He took a deep breath, trying to construct a coherent report from the madness before him.

  "Critical situation in three dimensions, Sir," he reported, his voice now more structured though the tremor couldn't be hidden.

  "Air Sector... Carta's sky is wounded, Sir. Our satellite imagery shows hundreds of aircraft contrails crisscrossing forming a giant spider web. They are blocking the sun."

  The background noise on the phone sounded rowdy—ATC operator shouts overlapping with collision warnings.

  "International Airport ATC Tower is screaming for help," the deputy continued. "No more time slots. Everything is Mayday. Foreign military cargo planes fighting over tarmac with private jets like wild beasts in a dry pond. And Departure Terminal... Sir, it's like a disaster movie."

  "Specify," Ravvi cut in sharply.

  "The diplomats, Sir. Those usually arrogant people... the Salomos Ambassador running dragging his own suitcase. I saw them on CCTV VVIP Holding Room, their faces pale, cold sweat dripping. They looked back with wild eyes, afraid the airport iron gates would snap their necks. They threw passports at immigration officers like throwing trash, demanding exit stamps ASAP."

  Noel listened while leaning back in his large chair. His finger tapped the desk slowly. Tap. Tap. Tap. A calm rhythm amidst the panic report.

  "Then Sea Sector, South Port," the deputy's voice trembled again because of a loud BOOM entering his microphone. DOOOOOMMMM...

  "Did you hear that, Sir? That's a foghorn. They're blowing them in unison, the tone is... desperate. Foreign ships cutting mooring lines by force! Cranes left hanging, million-dollar cargo left to rot on the docks. Tankers and cruise ships scraping hulls, sparking fire fighting for the exit channel. They are fleeing south as if Carta seawater suddenly turned to acid!"

  "And Land Borders?" Ravvi asked.

  "Total gridlock over the hills. Horns there are no longer traffic signs, but mechanical screams. People in cars hitting steering wheels, cursing our officers. Through zoom camera, I could see their stares, Sir..."

  The deputy's voice lowered, full of pain.

  "They stared at Carta land in the rearview mirror with spitting looks. Disgust. As if the land under their car tires is now poisoned and cursed by our King's madness."

  Silence for a moment. Only the heavy breathing of the deputy was heard.

  "In conclusion, Minister... Carta is hemorrhaging heavily. All foreign blood cells are spurting out of this country's body. We are alone now. I await instructions: Should the gates be forcibly locked?"

  Ravvi looked at Noel.

  Noel shook his head slowly. The corner of his lip lifted slightly, a thin cynical smile.

  "Let it flow," Ravvi answered calmly toward the phone. "Do not hold them back. Let the pus drain completely. Just make sure the VVIP runway is clear for our one other guest."

  "Yes, Sir! Will do!"

  Click.

  Connection cut.

  Noel spun his chair facing the large window behind him, staring at the darkening Ironseat sky. That report was music to him. Mass exodus meant one thing: interfering variables had removed themselves. The chessboard was now clean of useless pawns.