RPC Authority

"Cross-referenced intel indicates a total of nine critical containment breaches on ASIACOM soil during the second quarter this year, marking a 200% surge compared to the same period last year. Here are photos captured on-site by our operatives."

The square-jawed man aimed his green laser pointer at the series of images projected on the screen. The visuals were beyond unsettling: the top-left one showed what appeared to be a heap of mangled flesh and skin-covered skeletons with vacant, glassy eyes, yet the caption ominously confirmed that these things were still alive. The bottom image portrayed a corpse with grotesquely exaggerated facial features and distorted body proportions, its entire form covered with eyes that stared lifelessly into the camera. A few in the audience couldn’t suppress a gasp. The man on stage exhaled quietly: These weren’t rookies, and they should be used to this kind of horror by now.

"I’ll spare you the rundown on the victims. Every breach costs dozens, if not hundreds, of lives. I don’t need to remind you how critical containment safety is, do I?"

The slide flipped to the next page, displaying several tree diagrams outlining plausible breach causes.

"They never asked for help—then again, they never trusted us either. But we still need to stay alert to whatever caused all this trouble. We've just crossed the 100-day mark without a critical incident, and I expect everyone here to keep it that way."

"These accidents appear to be independent events. The causes? Neglected safety hazards, dereliction of duty, and clear sabotage by hostile groups and organizations. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Heinrich's triangle theory that no accident happens without signs. These causes stem from the Authority’s lack of funds and manpower. Both their internal and external operations are under strain, while facilities are running around the clock. Under such pressure, it’s no surprise safety gets compromised. What’s surprising, though, is that the number of incidents only began to spike this year. The purpose of this seminar is to analyze these situations, learn from our neighbors, and for everyone here to share their insights."

Before opening the floor to the participants, he had a few more words to add. The middle-aged man placed his hands on the podium, leaning slightly forward. The Big Dipper emblem stood boldly at the center of the wall behind him.

"Within the Authority, there are speculations that certain memetic agents might be behind the security risks targeting ASIACOM. What's even more infuriating is their paranoia—they've started suspecting us. They even entertained the idea that we might have bribed a few insiders to sabotage operations and apply pressure on our 'good allies.' This is complete nonsense. What possible benefit would that bring us?"

"The reason they’re throwing around baseless accusations is because there are clear regional patterns in these incidents: four occurred in Japan, three in South Korea, followed by Taiwan and Mongolia, yet not a single one took place in um, in the areas under our actual control. In other words, none of these incidents happened at a 'Chinese branch' site of the Authority."

Even for a gourmet of Red Hood's caliber, this banquet transcended expectation. The cold platter presented arlic-laced carp, caviar, diced egg whites, and fresh-cut vegetables, and aesthetically arranged into a lively phoenix. Golden chicken broth, infused with sliced matsutake and porcini mushrooms, released delicate aromatic tendrils that dance above its shimmering surface. Wagyu beef with a perfectly seared crust flooded senses with explosion of rich juice.

As per the menu's elegant script, master chefs had been specially summoned from Mainland and Japan to Bangkok for this occasion, ingredients hand-selected and airlifted at peak freshness. By the distant dance floor, the young Taiwanese pianist, though barely thirty, already commanded respectable renown. The Authority certainly spared no expense for its guests' pleasure: even Red Hood's substantial commission wouldn't cover this lavish spread. Such feasts came rarely for her. Yet she couldn't indulge—decadence didn't suit her role. There were still three main courses, a consommé, and dessert to go, but she'd have to excuse herself soon with sudden "stomach pains." What a shame, she would definitely miss that combo fried rice.

Today, she would be known as "Haigha", an ASIACOM ACI field operative, invited to the inter-district annual general meeting hosted by the South-East district. The invitation from her client laid it all out. It was rare to find a client this thorough and considerate—every detail she needed was provided: blueprints, target IDs, the works. No specific methods of execution like some of the assholes would asked for. Just one instruction: kill in front of as many witnesses as possible, in whatever way she saw fit.

Such simplicity had raised her supervisors' suspition, yet the client's background check yielded nothing: unwilling to risk losing one of the Order's few skilled assassins, they'd ordered Red Hood to prepare an exit strategy. Now it seems like pointless paranoia. The event's "exclusive" nature had lulled the Authority security sloppy: security had patted down her clutch and glanced at her invitation without proper ID verification. Even a novice could've executed this contract with basic poison or rope. But as a master of the craft, she'd deliver the kill with artistry worthy of her fee.

The hotel restroom was a gilded farce. All gaudy gold trim and floor-to-ceiling mirrors were only there to mask the decorator's utter lack of imagination. Red Hood peeled the Thai-English "Out Of Order" sticker from the third stall's door. Glock, check: it sat right under the ceramic tank lid, submerged in the water. Five minutes with the hand dryer would make it operational again. The drum magazine and accessories, check: they laid buried in the exit-side planter.

She kicked off her heels, yanked down the stockings, then took the eyebrow scissors to rip away the cumbersome evening gown with one sharp tear. A few makeup wipes erased the cosmetic artist's hour of work. Great, that agent Haigha who'd arrived in glamour had vanished from the mirror. The stock snapped into place, holographic sight secured, compensator tightened. Safety turned off, full-auto mode set, round chambered. The tools were ready, now all that needed sharpening was Red Hood herself.

There were Eight targets: three researchers, two agents, two Site directors, and a civilian contractor. All of them were already visually checked. Make it look like indiscriminate shooting—yet avoid collateral damage. Armed response won't breach for 120 seconds. After the job, vanish into the fleeing crowd. Every variable accounted for. Every piece was in position. Well, actually…second thought, might as well grab that dessert as a souvenir before leaving this place.

The doorman's eyes widened at the barefoot guest returning with a weapon across the carpet. He was too stunned to shout a warning—not that it would've mattered over the banquet's roar. The assassin didn't spare a glance at him. She shoulders through the side door soundlessly. Only a handful in the ballroom noticed her.

Then came the bullets' shriek—her dominance announced in brass and gunpowder.

Bifang did not like this.

Every molecule of the cramped conference room seemed to dissect her. The lone dangling bulb casted a harsh beam onto the table, smothering the faint city lights seeping through the window. Seven faces lurked in the shadows. Bifang strained to identify even a single detail, but it was futile. She struggled to match any of those figures to fragments of past memories, like her first facial recognition training a decade ago.

She had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. She’d just finished a routine assault operation. Every phase of the mission had been smooth and precise: the godlike roar of Hinds raining fire from above, the team rappelling down from the choppers, “neutralizing” the shell-shocked cultists with clinical efficiency. The MST handled the clean-up, and Bifang caught the earliest flight back to Site-CN-005 to debrief. The plane touched down at SHA by afternoon. She cobbled together dozens of presentation slides with the so-called “combat consultants” who never left their desks, then finalized the operation report after two rounds of hellishly spicy Chinese braised chicken takeout.

The city lights had already came to life, but she didn’t spare a thought for the skyline. She left the office, ready to call it a day—all she wanted was a warm bed. Two agents intercepted her at the door, security IDs displaying the insignia of DEP-022. Huaiying, one of the ACI operatives, briefly introduced himself and informed her she was required for a quick "internal assessment". She caught the faint scent of something off but brushed it aside. The moment she stepped into the designated conference room, Huaiying locked the door behind her. The room wasn’t empty—guests were already waiting. This is not the standard procedure, she thought, the ACI does not move without evidence. Something IS wrong.

They sat, letting the heavy silence settle like a fog. Huaiying positioned himself directly across from Bifang:

"Do you know why you are here, commander Bifang?"

Nope, not even the slightest clue. Bifang could swear on her reputation—she had never done anything to draw the attention of counterintelligence department, nor had she dipped a toe into the murky waters of office politics within the Chinese Branch. She worked with integrity as a loyal MST operative and a candid commander. She had no ambition to play the game of power, and betraying the Authority wasn’t even a flicker in her mind.

Huaiying continued. "Take your time, what were you doing seven years ago?"

"Seven years ago? The civil…the Iulii Flamma?" The question caught her off guard. Huaiying nodded, only deepening her confusion. During the RPCN civil war, she loyally served Site-CN-005 under the command of her former superior.

"I served for the Authority. You should know who deserves the credit for Site-06’s allegiance."

"Credit for serving the traitors—you and your superior, Xiezhi."

Huaiying’s calm voice sent a jolt of alarm through Bifang, her heart pounding. They weren’t ACI. It's a trap. They are…

"Don't look away, and don't try anything stupid." Huaiying continues. "Give us what we want, and you walk out unharmed. Or else—"

He cocked the hammer on a Type 54 pistol and set it gently on the table—not bluffing.

Bifang steadied herself, her mind racing through a quick assessment: they didn’t plan to kill her—not yet. Better to play along, figure out who they were and what they really wanted.

"Save it. Let me reintroduce myself properly. We’re from counterintelligence, but we serve for ASIACOM. I was just like you during the civil war—except I was on the other side."

Huaiying’s final statement rang true—Bifang’s microexpression training left no doubt.

"I guess Smalt failed her job. How could ACI just let you folks walk in like that?"

Huaiying froze for a split second, then carried on as if nothing had happened.

"I’m not here to question your past actions. But since we’re here, we might as well help each other out. Tell me what you know about Xiezhi, and no blood gets spilled today."

Is that so? She didn't give a damn about this liar. Her eyes flicked to the table, running quick calculations in her head. This could work. What a pity, those cute mugs would be definitely doomed. But before she made her move, she had one last question.

"You might wonder why we care so much about Commander Xiezhi," Huaiying said, his gaze locking onto hers. "Simple. She’s about to be nominated as a Global Director Candidate."

Ignoring Bifang’s stunned expression, Huaiying pressed on. “Don’t think for a second that Saitama is blind to the dirty games you’ve been playing in the shadows. By the end of the year, during the next GD re-election, she’s poised to secure enough votes…”

No need for more words—it's time to end this. Bifang cut Huaiying off with a fierce roar, launching herself at the opponent. She snatched what she needed mid-air as the table erupts into chaos—scattered clutter, the sharp crash of shattering ceramics. Huaiying ducked instinctively, just as she’d anticipated. By the time her feet hit the ground, the balance had shifted. She was no longer on the defensive.

"Please, don't move, Mr. Huaiying. From this distance, I could blast a hole clean through your heart." Bifang stood firm, the barrel of her gun aimed squarely at Huaiying’s left chest. "Let’s cut the nonsense, shall we?"

Huaiying gave a wry smile. "When did you figure it out?"

"Saitama’s lapdogs wouldn’t beat around the bush or take risks like this just to sniff around. So tell me, WHO are you?"

Huaiying responded with silence, turning to walk toward the door. Bifang raised her gun, aiming for his thigh, but no shot rang out. She pulled the trigger repeatedly—and there were only the sharp, empty clicks.

Sparse applause and laughter broke through the darkness. Huaiying flipped the switches, flooding the room with light that nearly blinded Bifang. As her vision adjusted, she saw Dr. Smalt, the mastermind behind this charade, squinting her face as she offers a giggling apology. Director Perseus stood stoically behind her—Bifang had met him just this afternoon. Giovanni sat across the table, struggling to maintain a poker face but failing. The other three faces were still strangers.

"Glad to see you again, Bifang. We’ve been watching you for a while now. Smalt said you were one of the best, and I see it now—calm, sharp."Perseus began to explain. "My apologies for testing your loyalty like this, but the situation demands caution. Long story short: do you remember the Joint?"

The Joint—another relic of the past. Officially known as the Sino-Himalayas Operation District Inter-Departmental Joint Chiefs of Staff, this wartime entity was forged to coordinate operations with the Covenanters. Bifang had been a nobody back then, far from the rooms where it happened.

"Based on my clearance level, it was dismissed after the civil war. "

Smalt finally stopped laughing. "Yes, and no. Professor Perseus reassembled it a few years ago. After the old man passed, RPCN was torn apart—internal strife, external threats, no one left to steer the ship. That’s when it became our time to work in the shadows, so the rest of you could keep dancing in the light. So, you’re welcome for…"

Perseus shot Smalt a sharp glare. She shrugged, muttered a silent "Yes, sir," and fell quiet.

"And I’d like you to join the new Joint—don’t say no just yet." Perseus wasn't asking for an answer. "We’re assigning you and your team as Xiezhi’s shadow guard. Protect her, support her, and keep a close watch. Do whatever it takes, adapt to whatever comes, and finish whatever needs to be done."

Perseus continued, left Bifang processing the flood of information.

"The Chinese Branch has more enemies than you can imagine. Plenty of people don’t want Xiezhi to become the next Global Director. Meet Ragnar—you might not know him, but he’s an MST commander, just like you. The two of you should talk. Afterward, you can tell me what you think. Ragnar's team ran into SCAA operatives in the ruins of a nameless city half a month ago. I am sure his story will interest you."

"Welcome to my castle, Major Shapur."

A stark contrast to Shapur's memories of its glorious past, the once-mighty Site-CN-006 now stood reduced to a mere weather station above ground as the front cover, and perched in the mountains as if it had always been just that. No trace remained of what it had been: RPCN's flagship facility, the largest in area and personnel. The Shackled Dragon had sheathed its fang after Operation Aedes, yet it still stirred in the shadows, yearning to spread its wings again.

Dust, the Site Director, guided Shapur through the underground concrete labyrinth. The short, middle-aged man moved with monkey-like agility, perpetually several steps ahead of Shapur as he explained each facility. Nearly seventy percent of this colossal complex was constructed after the Civil War under Dust's command—an undertaking that would have required massive logistical support and elaborate cover protocols to conceal such a leviathan. Dust likened Site-06 to a castle, but Shapur saw it differently: a white-painted tunnels and trenches. If a siege ever came, it would feel less like a castle and more like a fortress. The nearly identical corridors carved the space into a grid of specialized chambers, while elevators stitched the levels together. They ride the shuttle elevator to the office sector, then transfer to the sectional lift. Dust's incessant commentary on the facility finally ceased as they reached the Director's Office.

Shapur frowned. Though not his first time in this office, the decor, obscenely opulent compared to the dull corridors outside, still turned his stomach. The rosewood executive desk hosted a gilded banker's lamp, its glow reflecting off the untouched tomes lining the shelves behind. An electric fireplace flickered with digital flames beside the bookcase, its screen casting unnatural hues across the Turkish carpet swallowing the hardwood floor. That red oak door in the corner probably leads to places only ACI people would know, Shapur was never invited.

"Have a seat. Make yourself at home. From this moment, the conversation between us stays here—unless Huaiying’s planted a bug. So, while I wasn’t there, what story do the fallen leaves have to tell?"

Every second in this chamber gnawed at Shapur's nerves. His right hand settled near his waist holster as he delivered the Joint's edict:

"The 'Varangian Guard' was ambushed during their reconnaissance mission."

"Hmm, that I do know, cuz that piece passed through my hand. SCAA didn't just come and pick a fight. Shanghai should be smart enough to get her guard up."

"Yeah, we're certain the SCAA is hunting our Shadow Sites. This great Agency of Interest has finally reached the point where our little… operations worry them." Never mind that the SCAA publicly champions RPCN's authority—even encourages our anomaly contracts and local research initiatives. All that goodwill, born of their overconfidence, only makes them believe they've mapped our vulnerabilities, pinned us against the Japanese in Mongolia's blood-soaked sands."They'll pay for their arrogance."

Shapur stared into Dust's eyes, but receiving only a silent, casual nod in return. This prick could cut a backroom deal with the SCAA at any moment. If it weren’t for Perseus believing his skills could serve the Authority, no one would tolerate such a self-serving opportunist. Shapur closed his eyes, and continued as he let out a long sigh.

"Commander Xiezhi has earned Dr. Sangharama's approval. Her Global Director nomination will be announced within two weeks."

"Our noble, incorruptible Xiezhi! It’s a true injustice for her to remain trapped in this cesspool of corruption."I won't even be here, taking this shitty conversation with you if she did not promote you."We should have had a conversation with that Old-Fuck-Director, just let' im nominate one of our Joint members. How do you know she's not gonna turn on us? But again, it doesn't matter who gets nominated, eh? Without our support, that lil' girl wouldn’t have made it this far."

The Joint never considered Xiezhi might betray us…but they absolutely anticipated you would. Shapur thought, Back when RPCN and SCAA maintained cordial relations, we didn't have to worry about Dust selling Site-06 to the highest bidder. But before that happens, this live grenade needs to be defused—quickly.

"She won't. Perseus has dispatched an MST to keep an eye on her. We have just recuited Commander Bifang, she will be in charge of this. "

"Oh my, the Commander Bifang, how time flies! Those kids do grow fast, no?"

"South-East has finally got to a solution. They has just elected the new Regional Director. Outwardly a yes man—Saitama's perfect conservative. But his vote will be ours."

"Must be Smalt's deeds," Dust remarked. "That crazy bitch's racked up a body count in the trible digit just to make it happen."

"Code Heimdall is in effect until Xiezhi safely returns from her inauguration—this is the Joint's command. Site-06 must transition to Umbra State within a week. I trust you’ve made the necessary preparations." Shapur waited, watching Dust’s face until the reality of the order fully settled in. What comes next mattered more. His fingers hovered near his holster, palm slick with sweat.

"And finally, congratulations on YOUR promotion. The District has appointed you as Director of Shadow Sites, overseeing operations of all Shadow Sites." Which also removes you from Site-06. "Your expertise will be far more valuable there. Perseus will nominate a successor within three days."

Dust answered with silence, bending to access a lower drawer. Shapur's fingers drifted toward his holster—he'd always prided himself on his draw speed. The thud of a thick dossier hitting the desk made him ease his grip: still warm from his palm.

"Those are the key documents for my successor. I accept the appointment."

Though Black had only five pawns left, White's position was far more precarious: a lone rook with a king could not stand a chance against Black's victory.

Bowang had never mastered Western chess: his true allegiance lay with Xiangqi. His scant understanding came solely from childhood drills with the Polgár book, those relentless exercises his parents had forced upon him.. Yet tonight, GD-EAST’s play was conveniently charitable. Against all odds, the board was tilting in his favor.

As Perseus's personal envoy, Bowang endured an eight-hour red-eye from Beijing to Moscow, then fought through sleep deprivation to arrive at the White Rabbit restaurant precisely on schedule. The building's warmth seeped into his bones, thawing Moscow's chill. A waiter guided him immediately to the window seat—its view framing the towering Foreign Ministry building. No meal awaited, only an exquisite ivory chess set. He couldn't immediately distinguish which woman was GD-EAST until one addressed him in flawless Mandarin: she is the interpreter, a member of the Black Witch. Just as he marshaled his silver-tongued arguments for the Ice Queen before him, she sidestepped substantive discussion, instead gesturing to the chessboard. Though thrown, Bowang accepted. They played in tense silence, broken only by the click of pieces and his untimely stomach growls.

Bowang calculated the checkmate in five moves, He advanced the bishop's pawn—one square closer to promotion.

That's when GD-EAST finally spoke.

"In case you did not know: your ASF in Mongolia was defeated while you were on on the plane. Few positions in Чойр lost."

That was yet another day in such a low intensity attrition warfare. But coming from GD's lips now, it carried ominous weight. Bowang's gaze snapped back to the board. The white rook had taken an undefended pawn. He pushed his rightmost pawn to promotion square with check. Four moves remained.

"You would never have that vote from South-East RD. That Filipino is well-connected, and utterly stubborn."

Another troublesome issue. The RPCN could never persuade Op.Dis.2's RD through diplomacy. The Joint had promised his removal within a year, yet their knives remained sheathed. On the board, White's king retreated diagonally after eliminating the black queen, only for the black king to slide right—constricting the battlefield. Three moves left.

"SCAA does not truly back you. You should know better than I do that you are just their pawn against the ASIACOM. They’ll prevent your collapse, but don’t mistake that for permission to call checkmate on Saitama."

The white rook slid right, threatening the vulnerable pawn. A check against his king might buy some more time, but the board had already been distilled to a textbook two-move mate. Yet beneath the ivory pieces, her real gambit remained hidden.

"Counting on EURACOM? They are busying taking care of themselves. "

The Black pawn in c-file was promoted as it reached last rank, and white king moved down. Victory was one step away. One step away from checkmate, yet he was still puzzled.

"Our emissary appears to have lost not just his tongue, but the nerve to claim his laurels. The clock’s ticking—finish the game so we might dine. Wouldn’t want rumors of inhospitable treatment."

The moment of truth. She is hesitating, doubting RPCN's resolve, and calculating if she'd bet on the wrong side. He lifted queen:

"Time."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The next election is less than two years away. Even if we fail this time, we WILL strike again in six years. In other words, we’ll push for impeachment the moment we secure South-East."

"That guarantees nothing. You could fail—and never recover."

"I can guarantee you this: the only constant is change. We may fail, even lose our heads, it's true, and ASIACOM could remain under Uyoku’s thumb forever. But what if the table turns? What if…we prevail?"

Final move. The piece descended on B2—a death kiss for the king. Her face betrayed the truth before she spoke: he'd gambled right.

“Шах и матCheckmate, my dear Director.”

Do NOT look at the pale sun, Some deep instinct in Hjörvar's mind screamed, eye burns would the mildest consequence.

That was the only idea left when she woke up in the cursed, nameless city. This hellscape should have set every nerve alight with alarm, but she only wanted to escape from the sunlight. A chorus of fragmented whispersechoed in Hjörvar's ears: pleading sighs with no discernible source.

The breeze carried singeing dust, a fleeting touch of nature that momentarily dulled Hjörvar's fear. She found herself in a remnant of stone labyrinth. What remained in those half-collapsed hollow interiors are crude black-and-ochre avian figures. The cold sunlight bathed everything in sickly yellow, the play of light and shadow raising gooseflesh on her skin. Hjörvar attempted to rise. Grit burned her palms as she pushed her leaden body upright, only to be met with searing pain in her feet. A trail of parched blood snaked behind her. Her standard combat boots were gone, socks reduced to tattered rags. The lacerations on her soles had already begun to form scabs.

Hjörvar retraced her own bloody footsteps, desperate to escape the labyrinthine ruins. The trail led toward a distant tower—the gaps between prints widening with each stride. What had made her run through this cursed maze? How had she fallen into this nightmare?

The operation had been doomed from the start. Shortly after entering the nameless city, sharp-eyed Huginn had spotted followers shadowing their rear. But brandishing weapons at them proved a fatal mistake. Chaotic urban combat erupted. The Varangians fought a retreat, with Leader Ivar and four veterans covering their withdrawal while others scattered in teams. Yet Hjörvar had taken a wrong turn—now alone, lost. What followed existed only in fractured flashes: Fingers locked on the trigger until the magazine ran dry. Four golden crow pirouetting through architecture that defies geography. Then, the dissolution. Time and space bleeding at the edges like wet ink. And finally, the sun.

Blinding sun.

The tower's presence eclipsed all else in Hjörvar's visionas as nausea drowned out the pain in her feet. This was no ordinary structure. The stone edifice rose in jarring angles—a deliberate rejection of right angles that spoke of some religious purposes. Its chaotic geometry formed a grotesque parody of constructivism that stirred unease rather than awe. Though no evidence confirmed it, her bones knew: this was an altar. That the ancient Shu civilization could raise such wonder to their gods chilled her. If she'd survive, she would volunteer for the excavation of such ancient anomalous relic.

She finally understood the graffiti she saw previously. The tower's exterior crawled with repeating murals—crows nested within sun disks. Each spiral of the ascending staircase revealed fresher, more lifelike iterations. Blood smeared the steps as morbid curiosity drove her upward. The solar ravens in the paintings stirred. The summit remained impossibly distant, the stairs now treacherously steep, a ledge for a serpent to climb on. She progressed on all fours. Up. Always up. The tower tapered like a needle. The brushstrokes so precise they rendered individual feathers. When the stairs became vertical, she could only crane her neck, searing each golden crow image into her retinas.

In a trance, the divine bird burst forth from the tower—and at last, she beheld the blinding apex. Those wondrous records from humanity's childhood: Here soared Zhu Long across the heavens, here danced Ame-no-Uzume upon Takamagahara, here rose Inti from solar sacrifice…

Hjörvar's fingers slipped from the ledge. Her eyes shimmered only radiance now. All of human time—past and future—crystallized in this single moment: that merciless, magnificent sun.

What a rainy fall—though, technically, it’s November, so winter’s already here. The woodland was vacant, with just clusters of scattered low gravestones. Southern China isn’t as bitingly cold as HQ, but the wind still cuts deep, chilling to the bone. Jabberwock stood in black. The rain traced faint lines down the edge of his umbrella before dripping onto the back of the tombstone. His gaze shifted to a grave a few rows away, its epitaph read:

"A beacon of knowledge, forever remembered".

That was where his prey, once both mentor and friend, would appear—and where Lime now lay buried.

It must have been a decade ago. Jabberwock had been a fresh and eager intern in the Bureau of Acquisition—before ACI pulled him into the depths of Project Rabbithole. Being a self-proclaimed atheist, he sneered at the theological and occult gibberish, dismissing it as relics of the old Auctoritas. In his view, the Chinese Branch is special, and it needs to purge such nonsense and replace it with falsifiable, reproducible positivist methodologies. That didn’t last long. In a now-vanished site, Jabberwock first encountered Dr. Sangharama, who had come to deliver a lecture.

Take a deep breath. Focus. Jabberwock forced himself to revisit the briefing. He knows the RPCN better than anyone, which is why he’s leading this three-person squad. He doesn’t need Alice’s intel—he knows for a fact the target visits this place on the same day every year. Just like him, the target is a ghost from the past. And the past were long gone.

"…Based on reductionism, the hypothesis widely embraced by our colleagues at the Office of Analysis and Science, the 'Champ de Signifié' interpretation holds far more sway here than the theories favored by Thaumatologists overseas. This is precisely why the Scully-Drühl model has become the dominant theory in Chinese Branch—more specifically, the ONLY one believed to hold the potential for achieving a Theory to Everything in the field of anomalies. Meanwhile, frameworks like Emanationism, rooted in Neoplatonism, are dismissed as medieval relics. Yet, such academic exclusivity is its own form of blindness. A new branch like ours must reject this narrow methodology…"

The Tin Woodman is in position. That young lad had never met the target before, but he, too, had a score to settle with the traitor. Jabberwock wanted to take the shot, but Evanora wouldn’t allow it, citing the "risk of missing the target at such close distance." Bullshit. She didn’t trust his resolve—that was all. Her arrogance turned his stomach. An execution squad never needed three people, but HQ had never trusted anyone from the third district—not even the Loyalists who’d fought the Covenanters during the Iulii Flamma.

Things had been manageable before Iulli Flamma. The RPCN was bloated and inefficient, yet its existance was a prove of cooperation of its two parent organizations. But even at their most amicable, both sides kept cards close to their chests—hence Project Rabbithole. So the rookie researcher, barely settled into Analysis, became Agent Jabberwock: assigned to group Alice, infiltrating SCAA. Though it flagrantly violated ACI protocols, he'd still slink like a thief to consult Dr. Sangharama on thaumaturgy, often in Lime's living room. He would come to hate many faces during the salons later.

Evanora's voice crackled through the radio: Target entering position in sixty seconds. As the team's thaumaturge, she would seal the cemetery's perimeter upon target arrival, maintaining isolation against interference. Of course, she was also the embedded watchdog. HQ had seeded "advisors" and "adjutants" throughout these RPCN-absorbed departments, rewarding their loyalty with suspicion. The thought alone made Jabberwock almost lost his temper.

"I’m sorry, Jabberwock. I don’t possess that innate power, nor have I unlocked my full potential in thaumaturgy. From the perspective of Theosis, my shortcut to unity with The Good is lost. Anyone can become a thaumaturge, as the power of thaumaturgy resides within our souls. The soul to matter is as objects are to shadows. The search for the Unknown Boson in the 'Champ de Signifié' interpretation is destined to fail, for thaumaturgy and anomalies originate from the Existence that flows from The One. Matter is but a projection of Existence. Powerful thaumaturges shape the world with their will, as they have mastered their souls—and souls are more real than matter."

The rain's patter ceased abruptly as an unseen barrier isolating the cemetery. The target laid white chrysanthemums on Lime's grave. Two rain-sodden bouquets already wilted there. Now three. He had noted the earlier visitors: Perseus and Shapur. They'd be next. Every civil war traitor would die. Before the election, ASIACOM would snap this renegade branch's backbone. The Loyalists' vengeance would be complete.

when the civil war erupted, his undercover unit remained unaware of the situation. ACI command ordered them to hold their position, while Site-CN-005, invoking the authority of Lime—the "Regional Director", dismissed ACI command chain, demanded all uncercover units in SCAA abort missions and report to Shanghai immediately. Captain Alice refused to comply the order. Jabberwock, still in shock, did not leave like his other colleges. Lime is a reasonable man He'd thought, Alice must have misunderstood something… Then the nightmare came and proved him wrong. The Covenants leaked their identities to the SCAA. Interrogation began within hours. Had Alice not led a desperate raid on his safehouse prison with the last unexposed operatives, he'd be worse than dead. By the time Jabberwock evaded capture and reach ACI's Loyalists, he learned the Covenant had appointed the new Site-CN-05 Director: Dr. Sangharama.

Jabberwock collapsed his umbralla, walked towards his target. Dr. Sangharama, now the Regional Director, spoke without looking up:

"Are you here to kill me?"

Jabberwock did not respond, indifferent how Dr. Sangharama had detected him. Only one question mattered:

"Why betray us?"

"Claiming my ignorance would be a lie. But believe this: I did not know you stayed."

Not the answer he had wanted, but expected. He snapped the umbrella open: that was The Tin Woodman's cue to fire.

Shots rang, no blood. Then the impossible: Dr. Sangharama raised his right hand, freezing the 5.8 full-metal jacket rounds, with a tracer lefting a patine streak in the air. A blow sledgehammered to Jabberwock's chest before he could process it. The world upended. Rain mixed with blood on his lips as he crashed onto a nearby tombstone—broken like a discarded doll. Paralysis set in. Fractures, certainly. Internal bleeding, likely. Dying in a cemetary, realizing the inevitable, he thought, what an irony.

Two silhouettes approached. A fully-armed MST commander reporting to Dr. Sangharama, the patch in front of his kevlar showed "Night on the Galactic Railroad". He grabbed what jabberwock thought was a black rope—it was hair. He was holding a head. That witch had been "neutralized" with standard procedure, and the sniper had been contained. Dr. Sangharama commented with silence, but Jabberwock faintly caught his whisper: Omnes enim, qui acceperint gladium……

During his early days as an SCAA field agent, Jabberwock had once asked Dr. Sangharama how to killa thaumaturge. And his answer stayed with him: "Thaumaturgy is a science of existance, an art expressed through imagination. Its nature is recalling the knowledge in the Nous. But information cannot manifest spontaneously, nor can a thaumaturge fight with absolute unknown. In our battles, control of information is paramount. Deception becomes necessary to achieve surprise. By that logic, the most dangerous thaumaturge would be a master of divination and prophecy."

Dr. Sangharama squatted down, and whispers to Jabberwock: "It had been destined to be so, but you didn’t have to stoop to becoming a mere murderer."

Jabberwock tried to curse the old man’s hypocrisy, but no sound escaped his lips.

"I won't have the change to interrogate you myself. But I will do my best to ensure they spare your life. May you still have a chance for redemption."

"Dear ASIACOM colleagues from Administration, Research, Protection, and Containment."

"I am very pleased to announce to you all,
"That we have a new Global Director:
"Elected by two thirds of the votes,
"Ms. Xiezhi from Office of Ethics and Review, Sino-Himalayas district."

"Hail the new Director!"

One minute until the inauguration speech. Despite the perfectly regulated Air Conditioning, Xiezhi could still feel slick sweat pooling in her palms. She'd always know true leadership meant performing calm. So she stood confidently as always, masking the adrenaline.

At last, at last, everything we have ever done had took us to this one final step. We had never thought that we could make it this far. Seven years since the end of Iulli Flumma, and we had made one miracle after another: we destroyed the Convenants and Loyallists; rebuilt Operation District from ruins, and let Justice prevail; we survived between the parent organizations despite the loss of command; and lastly, we overturned Saitama in the dramatic vote, ASIACOM's divisions and injustices will start to unravel.

For the deserved justice and in the name of the Authority and the preservation of normalcy, the Chinese Branch rose against ASIACOM.

Though good deeds cannot erase the bad, and victory doesn’t justify the means, Xiezhi carried no guilt in her heart. She believed she had always walked the righteous path.

The SCAA envoy stood among the attendees, bearing Beijing's congratulations for their "ally's" new leadership. Xiezhi doubted the gesture was sincere. Her victory had shattered their expectations—wrenching RPCN from their grasp, ending the armed stalemate between Eastern Pacific and Sino-Himalayan Operational Districts. No longer would they move RPCN like pawns.

They must be furious. Yet cooler heads might yet recognize the mutual benefits: breaking Japan's GD-ASIA stranglehold and halting the Authority-SCAA rift served both organizations, and the preservation of normalcy itself.

Beneath the speech's hollow unity rhetoric lay the true challenge: bridging the Saitama-Shanghai schism. It was Xiezhi's first order of business as Director, and the very passage that had kept her and her secretaries burning midnight oil. Even now, moments before delivery, the words felt inadequate. Words are ghosts. Only action breathes.

Out there beyond the podium, the conflict raged on—Mongolian steppes and Korean peninsula still bleeding from the operational districts' strife. Low-intensity skirmishes encircled frontline sites like vultures. Never ceasing. Never yielding.

By tradition, security for the Director's inauguration fell to the "Imperial Forces"—Saitama's own praetorians from the First Operational District. While entrusting the ceremony to these loyalists wasn't without controversy, Xiezhi had overruled objections. Solidarity and continuity must be visible. Besides, should any mishap occur under Chinese Branch's "own" security, the fallout would be catastrophic.

Not everyone was convinced. Her former subordinates fidgeted below, eyes darting. Bifang had stubbornly positioned her squad throughout the venue—claiming that since Xiezhi wasn't yet Global Director, she held no authority over MST operations. Though Bifang offered no explanation, Xiezhi chose to interpret this as her way of saying congratulations. So she let it slide.

Nepotism and systemic corruption would be purged. The First Operational District's authoritarian relics would be dismantled. The Imperial Force's insignia might need redesigning; its military wing downsized. Operational boundaries would be redrawn, perhaps even new districts established. These reforms would begin during her term. ASIACOM's rot ran deep—only the scalpel of law could excise it. This was the core of Xiezhi's vision.

Achieving it demanded political artistry: crushing old power structures while pardoning coerced accomplices, balancing mercy against might. As Global Director, she had to play the long game—though some in the Chinese Branch undoubtedly preferred more direct solutions to regional disputes.

The speech concluded. First in line to congratulate her was the silver-templed SCAA envoy, followed by UNAAC representatives, then some manager from Nucorp Industries. The procession seemed endless, until the crowd parted for the outgoing Asian Director. The old man's handshake lingered, his knife-carved wrinkles framing eyes brimming with resentment. Xiezhi matched his grip until he yielded. Nearby cameras dutifully captured this cordial transition. Petty theater. The real concern was what backhanded schemes he'd left simmering. No matter—law and justice would smoke them out.

The banquet that followed was lavish, though the Night Witches insisted on taste-testing every dish. "My girls must be starving," Xiezhi joked to former subordinates, "to steal their Director's supper." Between bites, her secretary whispered endless well-wishers' calls, all ignored. The food tasted like ash. The initial euphoria had faded, replaced by the weight settling onto her shoulders. Becoming Global Director was merely the first move. A storm was coming—one that would remake ASIACOM. The night stretched long, but she wasn't alone. Loyalty surrounded her.

And so the new queen of ASIACOM took her throne.

Long live the Empress!