CHAPTER 135: CHAPTER 136: THE SHARPEST EDGE

Rain drizzled against the reinforced glass of Apex Holdings’ Eastern Operations Wing, a muted rhythm that echoed through the sprawling corridors. The city outside was a blur of neon and grey, drenched in cold illumination. Lin Feng stood at the heart of the war room, holographic interfaces spinning projections of troop movements, data flow, and economic trajectories. But his attention wasn’t on the displays—it was on the silent tension gathering behind his inner circle’s eyes.

The fractures within Apex hadn’t vanished. If anything, they’d crystallized, sharp as glass, visible only when the light hit just right.

Jiang Mei’s appointment to the independent oversight committee had stirred a quiet storm. Many respected Lin’s decision. Some questioned it. But most observed, waiting to see whether it was a tactical maneuver or a surrender of control.

Today, those doubts would come to a head.

"Jiang Mei flagged inconsistencies in the Golden Corridor resource report," Li Qingchen said, his voice even but edged. "Says supply chains were masked to hide hemorrhaging in the third logistics ring."

Lin didn’t flinch. "Was she right?"

Ren Yan, seated opposite him, nodded. "Unfortunately. The corridor’s team rerouted funds into shadow stabilization efforts without authorization. They’ve been running silent protocols to secure trade routes after the Risefall Syndicate began raiding convoys."

Lin’s fingers hovered over the surface of the table. A map reshaped itself, lighting up the affected region in red.

"Was this the right call?" he asked flatly.

Ren didn’t hesitate. "Tactically, yes. Strategically? Risky. It bypassed oversight."

Lin turned to Li Qingchen. "Your recommendation?"

"Bring them in. Make it official. But don’t punish them yet. Show the council that calculated autonomy is still rewarded—if declared early enough."

Jiang Mei entered the room a moment later. She walked with precision, confidence muted by respect. "Chairman Lin. The oversight report is finalized. The rerouted resources stabilized two major hubs, but left us exposed on three flanks. I recommend immediate rebalancing. Also..." she hesitated, then handed over a slim datapad, "...I believe this wasn’t just a field decision. Someone higher up gave silent approval."

Lin took the pad, eyes narrowing. The name on the authorization log flashed briefly: Vice Director Song Zemin.

Song was one of the old guard—deeply loyal, methodical, and known for playing long games.

"Call him in," Lin said.

Song Zemin arrived two hours later. His expression betrayed no guilt, only the weary calm of someone who had weighed consequences and chosen one danger over another.

"You authorized black flow logistics without informing the council," Lin said.

"I did," Song replied. "The Risefall Syndicate was moving faster than our formal channels. A delay could’ve meant three cities lost."

"You gambled," Lin said.

"I calculated. And it paid off."

Ren Yan stepped in. "But your silence nearly triggered internal censure. If Jiang Mei hadn’t uncovered the truth—"

"Then the cities would still be standing, and you’d still be blind to the cost of bureaucracy," Song interrupted.

Tension rippled through the room.

But Lin didn’t raise his voice. "Next time, you bring it to the council. No exceptions. Understood?"

Song nodded. "Understood. But know this—we’re at war. Not with bullets, but with velocity. Whoever adapts fastest wins."

That night, Lin didn’t sleep.

He sat alone in his private quarters, overlooking the rain-slick city. Memories of the early days came to him—when Apex was leaner, hungrier, and every decision was a matter of survival. Now, Apex was a colossus. It moved slower, spoke through intermediaries, and bore weight that made flexibility a rare currency.

Had he created an empire too large to steer?

His thoughts were interrupted by a secure transmission from an unlisted relay node.

Voice only. Altered. But unmistakably Keller.

"You’re bleeding from within, Lin. I can smell it from continents away. Your council is turning into a parliament of ghosts—haunting your every step. Step down, and I’ll give your people peace. Resist, and they’ll drag you down before I need to lift a finger."

The line cut.

Lin stared into the dark.

Then he whispered to the silence, "Let them try."

The next morning, Lin called an emergency session. No guards. No aides. Just the inner council.

He stood at the head of the table, a single paper dossier in hand—a relic from earlier days, when trust came in ink and signatures.

"This is Apex Directive Nine," he said. "It hasn’t been used in five years. A failsafe for internal instability. It authorizes temporary decentralization of authority across five regents—each with equal voice on strategic protocol."

Murmurs rose.

"You’re stepping down?" someone asked.

"No," Lin replied. "I’m stepping aside—temporarily. To test our structure. If this council fails to hold cohesion during my absence, we know we haven’t evolved. If it succeeds... then we’re ready for the next phase."

Zhao Yinuo’s voice cut through the tension. "And what’s the next phase, exactly?"

Lin looked at each of them. "Expansion. Not just in markets. But into the vacuum left by failing global structures. Apex wasn’t meant to be a business forever. It was meant to be a stabilizer."

He placed the directive on the table.

"You’ll each have full authority over your sectors. I’ll monitor. But I won’t intervene. For three weeks."

Li Qingchen narrowed his eyes. "And after that?"

Lin smiled faintly. "We’ll see who’s still standing."

The council divided the sectors the next day.

Zhao Yinuo took Global Security Operations. Ren Yan handled Strategic Economics. Song Zemin retained Logistics and Infrastructure. Jiang Mei—shockingly—was appointed as Internal Integrity Lead. And Li Qingchen served as interim coordinator.

Whispers ran wild through the organization. Was this a test? A crisis? A fracture?

But Lin watched quietly. He spent his days walking through branches without escorts, talking to mid-tier managers, engineers, silent operators. Listening. Observing. Judging.

And slowly, something happened.

Decisions came faster. Units moved cleaner. Jiang Mei’s audits prevented two corruption clusters from taking root. Ren Yan’s economic adjustments unlocked buried reserves. Yinuo negotiated a truce with a rival bloc that had evaded Apex for months.

It wasn’t perfect. There were disputes. There was stress.

But the machine didn’t collapse.

It adapted.

On the 21st day, Lin called the council again. No fanfare. No preamble.

"You did well," he said simply.

Yinuo leaned back. "So, are you taking the wheel again?"

"No," Lin said. "I’m changing the design. From now on, Apex operates on a dual-tiered leadership. Chair and Council Prime. I remain Chairman. But operational control rotates every quarter among the Council."

Gasps.

"You’re serious?" Song asked.

"As serious as ever," Lin said.

"Is this stability," Jiang Mei said slowly, "or evolution?"

"Both," Lin replied.

He looked at them—not as a ruler, but as the architect of something bigger than himself.

The sharpest edge, he had realized, wasn’t force. It was trust under pressure.

And now, Apex was sharper than ever.