VII

Kristof waved his staff dismissively, and the holographic interface before him flickered away. He turned his gaze to the expansive glass pane that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a commanding view of Amway City-State. The lights of the sprawling metropolis twinkled like a sea of stars, each one a reminder of his dominion. Behind him stood the Cleaner, his stoic demeanor betraying none of the tension he carried.

Kristof spoke without turning around. “How did it look? Any side effects?”

The Cleaner hesitated for the briefest moment, then replied, “None so far, my lord. However, I would suggest continued observation.”

“Why?” Kristof asked, his tone sharp but curious.

“Apologies, Lord Kristof. It is just... a feeling.”

Kristof finally turned, his piercing eyes narrowing. “In the old world, we called it a hunch. Tell me about this... feeling.”

The Cleaner cleared his throat, an uncommon show of unease. “Forgive my impertinence, but the boy… he looked like he wanted to kill me. That wasn’t Charlie. He was never like that. Charlie was meek, weak, and would easily cower in the face of power. This sudden shift in personality—it’s unsettling. He fought, my lord. All the way. I had to sedate him in the end.”

Kristof’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Interesting. Perhaps he had more spirit than we thought. Or perhaps it was a reaction to the Elixir. Either way, it doesn’t matter. A month of observation is already more than enough.”

“What are your orders, my lord?”

“Send him to the Academy. Assign someone else to continue the observation in your place. Your skills are better utilized elsewhere. I still need to refine the Elixir’s formula before we can proceed with the next round of testing.”

The Cleaner bowed deeply. “As you command, Lord Kristof.”

Kristof turned back to the window, his thoughts already moving ahead. Charlie Stone was little more than a lab rat to him, a tool in his endless pursuit of perfection. The fact that the boy’s level had doubled was merely a side benefit, one he had earned through sheer coincidence.

Reaching Level 10 had sealed his fate. Charlie was ready for the Academy, where his purpose would truly be fulfilled.

Kristof’s eyes swept over the city. He didn’t dwell on Charlie for long. After all, the boy was one of many, and Kristof had an empire to shape, one carefully controlled experiment at a time.

Since the Era of Great Migration, the Weave had been ruled by endless conflict. No matter the innovations, no matter the promises of a brighter future, one constant remained: people always sought to rise above others, and someone always had to be stepped on. There was no such thing as an ideal heaven, only a vaguely achievable paradise shaped by ambition and compromise.

After the Era of Great Expansion, when it was discovered that the Weave’s space was ever-expanding and new lands emerged with startling regularity, the wars briefly ceased. The energy once spent on bloodshed was redirected toward exploration and conquest of the unclaimed territories. It was a golden age of opportunity, a time when even the lowliest of nations dreamed of claiming their place among the stars of the Weave.

But golden ages never lasted.

Kristof stood in his towering skyscraper, the highest vantage point in Amway City-State, gazing down at the bustling metropolis. From here, the city looked like a network of pulsing veins, its life force flowing through every street and skyscraper. Yet Kristof saw not life, but a fragile machine teetering on the brink of collapse.

The third era was coming. He could see the signs.

Rumors of resource hoarding had begun circulating. Border skirmishes, dismissed as accidents, were becoming alarmingly frequent. Diplomatic envoys from neighboring city-states carried thinly veiled threats beneath their words of peace. The incursion was inevitable; it was simply a matter of when.

Kristof smirked to himself, a cold and humorless gesture. History was nothing if not repetitive. Humanity had escaped its dying world, fled into the Weave in search of salvation, only to carry its old sins into this digital utopia. If left unchecked, they would destroy it, just as they had destroyed the Earth.

"Humans," Kristof muttered, his voice tinged with disdain. "Such stupid creatures."

He couldn’t allow them to ruin this second chance. The Weave was too valuable to be squandered by their greed and short-sightedness. That was why he had dedicated his life to a singular goal: reducing them to cattle. A controlled herd, manageable and efficient, incapable of tearing each other apart.

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The Elixir was a critical step toward that goal.

Kristof turned from the window, his expression sharpening into one of calculated determination. Amway had to be prepared for the coming storm. Other nations would vie for supremacy, clawing at each other like starving animals. But Amway would not falter. Under his guidance, it would thrive.

He strode toward the door, his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow. Plans were already in motion—agents deployed, resources allocated, alliances forged in secrecy. Kristof was always three steps ahead, and this time would be no different.

At the thought of the impending Era of Great War, Kristof let out a low chuckle. The irony wasn’t lost on him. They had escaped the apocalypse on Earth, only to bring it to the Weave.

"Perhaps this time," he mused, "we’ll get it right."

But deep down, even Kristof wasn’t sure if humanity could ever escape its nature.

Kristof halted mid-stride, his instincts pricking at the air like a blade pressed to his neck. He turned sharply, narrowing his eyes at the door behind him.

The explosion came without warning, a deafening blast of fire and debris that ripped the heavy steel doors apart. Smoke billowed through the shattered frame, and from it emerged a figure drenched in blood. Charlie.

The young man dragged a holo-simulator in one hand, its light flickering with simulated energy, and gripped a grenade launcher in the other. His expression was feral, his movements unsteady yet purposeful. Kristof’s gaze flicked to the glowing Level 10 hovering above Charlie’s head.

“What do you want?” Kristof asked, his voice cold, betraying neither surprise nor fear.

Charlie bared his teeth in a manic grin. “Die, motherfucker.”

The grenade launcher hissed, firing a round straight at Kristof.

The Cleaner moved faster than the eye could follow, catching the projectile mid-air with his bare hand. The explosion was instantaneous, engulfing the Cleaner in flames and smoke. Yet as the debris cleared, he stood unscathed, glaring at Charlie with an expression caught between rage and incredulity.

“Young Master!” the Cleaner boomed, his voice trembling with restrained fury. “Because you are His Lordship’s son doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you like!”

Kristof observed the exchange with detached curiosity, noting the subtle shift in the Cleaner’s stance. Despite his reprimand, the Cleaner was shaken. Kristof could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the way his gaze lingered on Charlie’s blood-soaked figure.

“This is foolish,” Kristof said calmly, discarding his staff. He reached to his side, summoning his sword with a fluid motion. The blade shimmered with an otherworldly light, its edges sharp enough to split reality itself.

Charlie roared, charging forward with reckless abandon. He fired another grenade, this time aiming directly at Kristof.

The patriarch of the Stone family moved like a wraith. With two quick swings of his blade, the projectile was sliced in half, detonating harmlessly behind him. The third swing came before Charlie could react.

Blood sprayed across the room as both of Charlie’s arms were severed, the holo-simulator and grenade launcher clattering to the floor. Charlie fell to his knees, his screams echoing off the glass walls.

Kristof stood over him, the tip of his sword hovering inches from Charlie’s throat. “I like the passion,” Kristof said, his tone almost amused. “But passion without strategy is just wasted energy.”

Charlie gasped for air, his eyes blazing with defiance even as his body betrayed him.

Kristof sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not ready for this world, boy. Not yet. Perhaps in another life.”

Behind him, the Cleaner stepped forward, ready to finish the job.

But Kristof raised a hand to stop him. “No. Let him live. Just a bit longer.”

The Cleaner hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Kristof stood still, his piercing gaze locking onto the bloody figure before him. Slowly, he raised his hand and activated his Level 10 Appraisal skill.

The system responded immediately, a glowing interface materializing before his eyes.

[Player: Owen Hart]

Level: 10

Kristof’s lips curled into a wry smile. “I see,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension. “You are foolish to your core. So human. So self-destructive. If I were you, I would have pretended to be Charlie to the best of my abilities—hone my blade in the shadows and strike only when it truly mattered.”

Owen’s chest heaved as he glared at Kristof, his defiance unwavering despite the blood streaming from his wounds. “Do you think this is a game? I’d rather die than let your tyranny continue!”

Kristof chuckled, the sound cold and hollow. “Foolish till the end,” he muttered. “But let me enlighten you, Owen Hart. Do you know the Weave was originally based on a VR game? Its AI evolved drastically as developers altered its functions, transforming it into this world we now inhabit. The Weave is nothing more than a giant simulation of souls. To me, it has always been a game.”

Owen froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. The words struck a chord deep within him, unraveling what little stability remained of his stolen reality.

Even the Cleaner, stoic and composed, appeared rattled for a fleeting moment.

Kristof leaned in, his voice lowering to a whisper that felt more menacing than any shout. “Charlie is dead. Replaced by you—a mere Level 1 who thought he could play in a world of gods. An interesting development, though hardly surprising. My formula, it seems, is flawed to the core.”

“Excuse me, Lord Kristof?” the Cleaner interjected, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Kristof didn’t turn to face him. His gaze remained fixed on Owen, who trembled under the weight of the revelation. “Charlie Stone is no more,” Kristof continued. “He has been replaced by this parasite—Owen Hart. Fascinating, yet meaningless. From this moment forward, Charlie’s name is struck from the family registry. I’ve disowned him.”

Owen’s body tensed, and he tried to flee, his instincts screaming at him to escape. But before he could make it three steps, the Cleaner was upon him, slamming him to the ground with one swift motion. A boot pressed firmly against his back, pinning him in place.

Kristof turned his back to the scene, wiping the blood from his sword with a single, deliberate stroke. “Heal him,” he commanded. “And then send him to the Academy. Let them break him properly. He still has his uses. The Academy could always use more cannon fodder.”

Owen gritted his teeth, his anger boiling over. “You think I’ll just bend to your will? That I’ll let this go?”

Kristof smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Do well to survive, Owen Hart. Who knows? Perhaps someday, you’ll grow strong enough to kill me.”

Without another word, Kristof strode away, his footsteps echoing ominously in the chamber.