CHAPTER 228: ARCHITECT

"Hostile contact! Defensive perimeter! Secure the Minister!" Rhys Graves’ command cut through the chaos.

What seconds ago had been a methodical search operation shifted instantly into a coordinated defensive maneuver. STF units reformed around Henry Bates in a protective formation, weapons raised, every rifle trained toward the source of the blast. No hesitation. No panic. Only combat protocol.

They were deep in hostile territory—and not against scattered raiders, but against first-generation enchanted mutants. Yet neither the soldiers nor Henry Bates, whose rank positioned him among Shelter City 9’s most critical figures, showed the slightest trace of fear or hesitation.

Their expressions remained composed, eyes sharp, and posture steady. Their focus was absolute—fixed on the blast site with the unwavering discipline of men who saw their mission not as duty, but as conviction.

Seconds passed.

The silence, already heavy, thickened further until something moved.

A figure began to rise from the center of the blast zone.

"Wings?" Rhys was the first to speak, his voice low as he keyed his comms. "All units, visual contact. No hostile action detected. Initiate support protocol."

Then he turned to Henry as he said with a chuckle. ’’Looks like we found the entrance.’’

As the command relayed through comms, STF units smoothly shifted formation. Defensive postures eased, weapons lowered just enough to signal readiness without compromise. New perimeter positions were taken, optimized for immediate support. But Henry Bates didn’t move.

His gaze remained locked on the figure rising from the crater.

Adyr ascended, his massive, pure-white wings beating steadily against the night. In the glare of the military floodlights cutting through the darkness, those wings seemed almost otherworldly—too pristine, too precise. The soldiers watched in silence as the winged figure climbed higher, casting elongated shadows across the broken terrain.

"What the hell is that...?" Someone whispered. A hushed murmur rippled among the STF ranks as Adyr’s silhouette fully emerged into view.

But it wasn’t the wings that left them speechless. Every soldier present had seen those before—broadcast live to the entire world during the prior incident. His wings were known.

What shocked them now were the two thick ropes he held in either hand—ropes that extended backward to massive blocks of ice suspended like makeshift cargo. And atop those ice slabs, gripping the secured ropes like passengers hitching a ride, were Selina and the others.

Adyr rose clear from the crater, pausing briefly as his cold gaze swept over the assembled convoy. Silence pressed down for a moment. Then, he moved forward—his massive wings folding against his back as he approached. The ice blocks hit the ground with a heavy, echoing thud as he landed beside them.

Rhys stepped forward, pushing past his front line without hesitation. His voice cut through the tension, measured but curious.

"Boy... Let me guess. These two are Sparks?" He nodded toward the massive ice blocks, eyes flicking between Adyr and the frozen forms within, visible now in stark detail under the lights.

Behind the ice, monstrous shapes lay trapped—creatures unlike anything the STF had catalogued.

"I thought the researchers might appreciate them," Adyr said, his tone dry yet laced with a faint amusement. "Figured they’d offer me good merit for the effort."

He wasn’t wrong.

After his last display—single-handedly annihilating the mutant forces that had besieged Shelter City 8—his standing was undeniable. At this point, Adyr could have demanded nearly any resource, any support, and few would have dared question him. Humanity saw him as its strongest player, its last safeguard. The logic of rewarding him without limit seemed obvious.

But systems didn’t exist solely to serve logic.

As much as he could bend the world through strength and fear alone, there were structures he chose not to break—yet. The merit system was one of them.

Because power alone didn’t build loyalty.

A hierarchy driven purely by fear bred compliance, not dedication. And what Adyr needed from humanity’s research divisions—enthusiasm, innovation, and long-term commitment—couldn’t be forced at gunpoint.

That was the purpose of the merit system. It was designed to encourage voluntary effort. Scientists worked not because they were ordered to, but because they were rewarded for their successes. Their desire to innovate—to compete, to prove themselves, to earn—kept the system functional.

Across all 12 Shelter Cities, from player headquarters to research labs, this principle held: every engineer, every scientist, and every laborer contributed willingly under the promise that their efforts would be recognized, rewarded, and valued.

And Adyr knew better than to dismantle a system that worked.

For now.

Until he reached the point where loyalty and enthusiasm could be replaced by absolute rule, until humanity’s cities themselves became little more than colonies under his command, this framework would remain intact.

At least for the moment, merit—not fear—was the currency that kept the machine running.

"Don’t worry. You’ll get every payment you’ve earned," Henry said, stepping forward, voice calm, stance firm.

He was probably the only one who understood the true meaning behind Adyr’s casual words.

The man who, just hours ago, had personally caused the deaths of thousands—and then effortlessly repelled a city-threatening disaster—stood here now, asking only for the reward he was due.

There was no arrogance in his tone. No intoxication from power. He wasn’t asking for favors or demanding recognition. He wanted exactly what was owed. No more. No less.

That, Henry thought, is what makes him terrifying. He smiled outwardly, the practiced expression of a statesman. But inside, there was no calm. The storm churned behind his eyes.

He remembered the private words from the 12 City Managers—their hushed meetings, their uneasy calculations. And the warnings of the so-called Mad Scientist. The boy standing in front of him wasn’t just a strong mutant.

He was becoming something else entirely.

A force capable of reshaping the world itself.

And now, watching him operate, Henry understood how.

Adyr wasn’t trying to burn the system down.

He wasn’t tearing down the structure of humanity’s last cities like some tyrant driven by raw power. He moved more like a master architect restoring a crumbling monument. Keeping the supporting skeleton intact. Reinforcing what was strong. Replacing only what was cracked, worn, or obsolete.

And that, Henry realized, was far more dangerous than any brute conquest.